


Through The River Thames, To The Sea

by sleeepyowl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit of poetry, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Demisexual Sherlock, Demisexuality, Drug Use, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Story, M/M, Magical Realism, Mermaids, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Original Character(s), Pining, Sea Monsters, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, because I can't get enough, just to start us off I swear, sea story, seaweed - Freeform, the rest is narrative, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeepyowl/pseuds/sleeepyowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hasn't been on a case in over a week when he decides to help Sherlock capture a drug syndicate in an old warehouse by the Thames, despite his foreboding. But chaos ensues when John is suddenly thrown into the Thames in the middle of a fight, and he has to rely on Sherlock for his recovery. Something strange starts happening to him and it isn't just what is in the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I''ve been meaning to write a really good johnlock story for a long time and now that I've graduated, I have enough time to do so. This fic will be in three parts, and I've already got the second one done and the third is close, so don't worry. I won't abandon this. Two more updates will be regular. Trigger warning for some violence/ non-con drug use at the end of this chapter but I swear that's as bad as it's going to get. I love the idea of dabbling in a magical realism world. The magic is further in the story, in the second and third chapters. Comments are my fuel, they keep me writing. So please, TELL ME YOUR THOUGHTS! I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading! :) 
> 
> PS. The poetry is only at the beginning and then it turns to straight narrative in third person. I just couldn't leave it out... I wanted to set the tone of the piece with Sherlock's thoughts to have a framework. So if you're not a poetry person, go ahead and skip it.

You don’t know how beautiful you are

when you sleep.

 

My god.

 

You have no idea.

 

It is my accidental privilege:

a secret ceremony that I witness

coincidence? perhaps, but like I’ve told you;

the universe is rarely so lazy.

 

falling asleep in our living room

the couch—your second bed quite

often now.

 

You don’t know how beautiful you are

when you sleep.

 

The delicate skin of your eyelids

I could never tell you how I wonder

about their softness

or what your laugh lines taste like.

That stubble, is it as rough as it looks?

 

I know

you sleep here when you don’t

want to be alone. I know.

You don’t know how fragile you are

when you dream.

 

The nightmares become tangible

right here in our living room

the bullet holes from my frustration

on the wall are gaping,

gasping for air

along with you.

 

how beautiful

the tips of your hair are, a silver

flash in the darkness

when you toss your head.

 

My god.

 

You don’t know how beautiful

your face turns with the melody of

music. My violin which draws

out the poison of your nightmares

like hot water drawing out

a bee’s stinger from skin.

 

It has always been my privilege

to keep you safe.

 ***

It was early Friday morning. The sun was streaming through the windows of 221B Baker Street, and John Watson was having a difficult time waking up. His back was sore from another night on the couch, passing out yet again in front of the telly.

The last thing he could remember was an old rerun of Graham Norton, his face blurred with orange pixels in a frozen laugh stuck in limbo on the screen. John got up, stretching his arms loose, and realised that Sherlock must have draped a blanket over him sometime in the night.

He padded lightly into the kitchen, filled the kettle half-full of water from the tap, and hit the switch down with a snap. Then, turning to lean against the counter, he stared into space as he listened to the comforting sound of water sloshing against the sides of the metal, getting ready to boil.

 John looked up to see a head with a mass of unruly curls swept up from sleep appear suddenly in the doorway, momentarily blocking out the light, for which John was grateful; but he set to frowning again as soon as the shadow passed and came to stand next to him. Sherlock studied John briefly before reaching slightly above him to grab two porcelain mugs and a box of PG tips. With a thud he placed the mugs on the counter with a teabag in each.

 “You didn’t sleep well.”

 “How’d you guess?” John asked dryly. 

 “Well, I hardly slept either.” He paused, looking back at John. “You’ve been having nightmares again.”

It was a statement, not a question. John eyed him warily. After two double shifts at the surgery, John was beginning to feel worn down. The type of exhaustion that seeped into his bones and couldn’t be shaken off with just one night’s sleep.

It was going to take a while before he felt better. He couldn’t quite place what was wrong. Was it perhaps too much suffering, too much hysteria, and too much death? He hadn’t worked three double shifts in a long time like he had in the past week, but John used to be a solider. He didn’t know why these things were suddenly affecting him in the way that they were.

John sighed as he noticed that Sherlock was still staring at him.

“I’m just a bit knackered, that’s all.”

The kettle finished boiling and Sherlock filled both of their mugs with the water and dumped five cubes of sugar into his own before handing one to John, ignoring the raised eyebrows. 

“Tea. It’ll make you feel better,” Sherlock said, as if it had been his idea all along.

“Thanks.” John took the mug and cherished the warmth spreading into his fingers. The tea tasted pleasantly bitter and he began to feel more restored.

“I might have a case today,” Sherlock said. “I’m expecting a text from Lestrade any minute.”

The unspoken question hung in the air between them. John watched the steam curl up from his mug, the tendrils working in dramatic patterns through the current in the room. He met Sherlock’s eyes without saying anything.

“I reckon it might be useful, for you to come out. I could use your help. It’s been over a week since you’ve come along with me.”

John was secretly thrilled. He hadn’t planned for much that day, maybe a bit of light reading, a walk to Tesco for some groceries, an evening of crap telly while Sherlock worked on his laptop. But now, the prospect of the domesticity for that evening became too much. It had seemed like ages since he had been on a proper case with Sherlock. Crap telly and groceries could wait.They’d get takeaway on the way home.

“Yeah, alright.” John realised he was still in his dressing gown while Sherlock was dressed as elegantly as ever in a navy button down and charcoal trousers. He suddenly felt exposed and graceless. “Let me get changed, yeah?”

After splashing his face with cool water, running a comb through his hair, and putting on his comfiest cream-coloured jumper and soft worn jeans, John felt nearly human again. The puffiness in his eyes was beginning to fade and the thought of going out on a case made his heart pump with a feeling that wasn’t unpleasant.

He leapt down the stairs from his bedroom, and with a small ping, he heard Sherlock’s mobile chime.

Sherlock looked up from the screen as John entered the living room.

“Honestly John, must you wear that endearing sweater on a case?” As if realising he just spoke his words aloud, Sherlock looked just as embarrassed about saying them as John felt about hearing them.

John felt a blush creeping up his neck at the word  _endearing_. He’d never heard Sherlock use that word to refer to him, or anyone really. It made him feel—warm. He shrugged. “It’s comfortable and I like it.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, looking at him as though he wanted to say something else—then thinking better of it—he turned back to the mobile in his hand. He held it out and put the screen in front of John. “Here’s our case. London’s newest and greatest drug lord.”

John studied the screen that Sherlock held in front of his eyes.

Sherlock swiped through several photos of a man walking through London. He was as inconspicuous as they could come: a standard stylish haircut, auburn hair, medium build, and almond-shaped eyes. His clothing was in the same vein: he wore indigo washed jeans, an olive tee shirt with a small unremarkable design in the upper right corner, and Nike trainers with the logos scuffed and fading away. In short, he could have been anyone.

“His name is Alfred Franson. He’s been operating a drugs syndicate right here in the heart of London for years in an old warehouse near Chelsea Harbour, close to the Thames. The thing about these types of criminals is that eventually they want to be caught. They’re too proud. I’ve got my homeless network to thank for the information. We caught him boasting about a drug he’s been developing—”

John interrupted. “Hang on, a new drug? What kind are we talking about here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “Franson seems to have developed something new— we think it’s a type of hallucinogen they’re calling Scale. That’s all we really know yet, but he’s been selling mass amounts both here in London and throughout Eastern Europe and America.”

“Do you really think the two of us can handle him on our own? A drug lord with a load of people working for him, against a genius with a gun and his loyal sidekick?” John didn’t know where the bitterness in his voice was coming from.

“John please; you are so much more than just a sidekick to me. I’d flounder without you and we both know it. Besides, we’ve taken on criminals like these before. What makes you think this is going to be so different?”

“Hang on, what did you just say? You’d flounder without me?” John suddenly imagined a fish flopping around, hopeless. He wondered why Sherlock had begun to use words such as  _endearing_  and _floundering_  this morning. Perhaps he should start to worry.

“This past week with you at the surgery has proven to be very frustrating. More so than I’ve anticipated.”

“Your flattery and overconfidence is stifling.”

“It’s usually the other way around. I suppose I need to return the favour sometimes, to let you know that I…erm… feel indebted to you,” he finished delicately.

“Have you been talking to Molly or something? Or are you just taking the piss?”

“Neither, John.” Sherlock snapped.

John’s stomach was suddenly in knots. “Ah, I bet Mrs Hudson then. On second thought, maybe I’ll just start working at the surgery frequently so that I can hear those words from your mouth more often.” He gave Sherlock a grin.

He decided to change the subject to more neutral territory to allow the flush from his cheeks to die out.

They were talking about the case.  _Right, focus._ John brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s. “Alright then. When are we going?”

“Now. I want to take the tube.”

“And why not a taxi?”

“Because we need to be as unassuming as possible. A cab would draw attention.” _Odd,_ John thought. It was against Sherlock's nature to not want to seem flashy. 

“Where’s Lestrade? I thought you said he would text.”

“He did. Him and Donovan will be there this afternoon, but I thought it would be better if you and I went to investigate beforehand.”

“That might be a bit not good, Sherlock. I don’t think Lestrade would appreciate it.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. It gives us a clear advantage to know exactly what’s going on before he and those idiots Anderson and Dovovan come running through like mad bulldogs, ruining every piece of evidence we’ve got.”

 

 

They took the tube to Pimlico and walked south along the Thames for quite a while until they came upon a quieter part of town with less friendly trees and architecture and more grey concrete and stone. It was chilly with the wind picking up around them, ruffling John’s hair slightly. The sky matched the buildings and John suddenly felt sombre, and a twinge of something else at the back of his neck. Tension—or fear—he didn’t know.

He was silently cursing inwards at himself _—for Christ’s sake, get a grip—_ when he spotted the warehouse immediately as it came into view along the bank. It was a big looming thing that seemed to lean slightly over the Thames like it was threatening the water by its sheer size and massive concrete walls. It reminded John of a version of the Tate, except greyer and less crowded with tourists.

“How can they possibly get away with this? It’s a bit easy to find, don’t you think?”

Sherlock was studying the building with a guarded expression. “It’s the best way to hide, in plain sight like this.”

They sat on a bench near by the warehouse—John walked over and bought a paper cone filled with roasted honey and cinnamon almonds from a vendor near the bridge—and they watched the people around them. Sherlock casually flung his arm out behind John and rested it against the wooden backing of the bench.

John held out the paper cone. “Almond? It’s honey, your favourite.”

Sherlock eyed the almonds with distaste and shook his head. “I can’t slow down now.”

“Sherlock, when’s the last time that you’ve had anything to eat?”

Sherlock ignored him at first, but when John didn’t move the cone he slowly reached over and grabbed one. Soon, the two of them were munching noisily.

John savoured the moment. On cases, it was always like this. There was always a moment of calm before the storm, before the game was on, before the chase. Silently, he wondered to himself if he would need to use his gun this time. The mere though gave him a bit of a thrill.

 Sherlock leaned into John, his mouth coming close to his ear. John could smell the honey and cinnamon on his breath, mixed with something else—something herbal and slightly soapy—Sherlock’s shampoo. “That’s him John. Franson. Do you see him?”

John was momentarily distracted by Sherlock’s sudden closeness but he looked up to follow the male figure in a black twill jacket walking purposefully into the warehouse. John nodded.  “I see him.”

After Franson disappeared into the building, Sherlock shot up off the bench like an overeager schoolchild that couldn’t sit still.

“Let’s go. There’s an entrance through the side.”

John threw away the rest of his almonds and followed Sherlock around the side of the building. It was even more intimidating up close. John didn’t know if it was just his imagination or not, but it seemed as if the warehouse itself was humming like a separate living entity with its own heartbeat.

It could have been the rawness of the past few days: the lack of sleep, the nightmares, spending less time on cases than usual; but John didn’t feel right. There was something working beneath the surface of this warehouse like a string pulled taut, the tension ready to snap and spill at any moment. He thought that Sherlock could sense it too; he moved closer to John his hand coming to rest on his wrist very delicately, barely a touch.

“Wait John.” Sherlock reached out to the bolted side door. It had been whitewashed over many times with hasty brush marks layered atop each another, but there were still scrapes through the paint, as though someone had taken a needle and drug it across the surface.

A small faded metal sign hung above the doorway:  _Melbourne’s Drain and Pipe Works_. “It’s just a façade. It covers up the drug operation effectively as long as they keep producing an adequate amount of materials to distribute on the side so the authorities won’t question it—clever, really. It’s worked until now.”  Sherlock slowly reached out to try the small silver handle nob; it didn’t give.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a set of picks to try the lock. He let go of John’s wrist and leaned against the door calmly, trying to break the jamb. John stood behind him, glancing around as casually as he could.

“What about CCTV?” John murmured under his breath.

“I’ve already checked for that. We’re fine.”

But yet, John was still uneasy. He still felt as though they were being watched.

“Sherlock, hurry up, will you? There’s something not about his place.”

Sherlock sighed. “Obviously there’s something not right here John; we’re about to break into a top secret drug manufacturing business.”

The door finally gave and Sherlock slipped into the warehouse followed by John. John’s eyes couldn’t adjust to the sudden change in light.

All he could see was pitch-blackness. He became more alert as he realised their great disadvantage. They had just come through a bright door into a dark foreign space like a beacon. They were a clear target for anyone in the vicinity.

At first, nothing happened and he blinked furiously as he willed his eyes to adjust but they did not. The darkness was all consuming. Sherlock stood close enough to him that he could feel the fabric from his coat brush against his shoulder.

John let out a slow breath and reached out to place his hand upon Sherlock’s sleeve just to feel something solid. It was as though it wouldn’t take much for John to be whisked away into the room, to float through the dark. Wherever they were, he couldn’t hear anyone nearby. Perhaps they were in a storage room or a quieter part of the factory.

“Stay close to the wall,” Sherlock whispered.

It came to John’s attention of how wrong he actually was when Sherlock’s words failed to echo.

Something moved and the room was suffocating. Something was closing in on them. It felt like an accumulation of all the unease that John had been feeling that morning was finally coming to a head.

The sound of footsteps off to John’s right told him that they were in fact not alone and there was a person a lot closer to him than he originally thought. John could hear his heartbeat in his head. Someone grabbed his arm and for a split second he thought it was Sherlock, but it was on the wrong side of him and the hands were not as gentle as his.

They were tugging with a sense of urgency; it turned to chaos very quickly.

He was thrown against the wall with a smack and a sharp pain erupted into his stomach. John let out a grunt.

“Sherlock! Where are you!?” He was in full soldier mode now, reaching for the gun tucked in his belt. But it was no use firing into a dark room where he couldn’t see his target.

“Don’t even try, Dr Watson,” a gruff voice in his right ear said. There were more hands on him pulling, pushing him down. Sherlock wasn’t near to him anymore. His gun was taken from him and his fingertips slipped as the cool metal was pilfered away. Where the hell was Sherlock?

A blunt object hit John on his temple as he struggled. There must have been three or four people restraining him, holding him down, he estimated slowly.

The sound of the struggle became muted as a ringing filled his ears instead. Another blow, this time lower on his cheek than the first. John saw nothing but stars. Right before he fainted, he thought he heard Sherlock calling out for him.

 ***

As John regained consciousness he still knew he was in danger. The blurred edges of his surroundings slowly came into focus. As the room before had contained a smothering darkness, this new setting in contrast was too bright to make out anything at first.

He knew he was outside but it reminded him of the time he had been kidnapped by Moriarty and taken to the pool. He had wakened to a much similar environment, with his wrists tied behind his back and his feet immobilised in the same fashion.  

There was a cool air that ruffled around him and the sound of something moving far below him.  _Water_ , the thought suddenly popped into his head. The scent of the Thames was strong, moving up to his nose through the wind like a perfect transport. It smelled like wet wood, earth, and petrol.

John began to diagnose himself.  _Slight concussion, a few scrapes, maybe some bruising on the ribs. A bruised cheek. Could be worse._  The ringing sound had disappeared and although his vision was blurred, the edges were becoming sharper. He had a killer headache.

Sherlock was still out there, perhaps in even more danger than him and this made John’s mind jolt into action. He needed to get up now.

Pounding footsteps were coming toward him as he struggled to stand up.

“John!” He heard Sherlock shout.

 _Thank god he’s okay for now_ , he thought.

“Sherl—”He tried, but John found that speech was proving to be rather difficult at the moment. Perhaps he was more concussed than he first thought.

Sherlock bent down in front of John and began untying the knots that were at his ankles and wrists. The sight of his friend was almost more than he could bear and he tried to reach out to him, but his body felt so heavy. It took a lot of effort to even move.

“Shh, John. We need to get out now. We only have a few moments.”

John tried to stand.

“Not so fast, boys.”

Sherlock whipped around in the direction of the voice. He had been so focused on John that he had failed to notice several men coming up to them. John could make out a man in a twill black jacket striding casually with three other large blokes in step behind him. They were headed toward them at the end what he now knew was a dock.

John stood up fully—with a lot of effort—next to Sherlock and looked at Franson. Up close, he still wasn’t spectacular. His clothes hung off his frame inelegantly and he faintly smelled of old tobacco.

Franson’s eyes moved between the two of them. He gave a sly smile. “Well, y’all are very sweet, I’ll give you that.”

His accent was surprising. It was nothing like the London accent that John naturally assumed he would have. In fact, he couldn’t place where it was from at first.

“I think it would be pretty exciting to hurt John here, maybe even kill him. Just to see you squirm, Sherlock.”

 _American Southern accent_. John frowned at the realisation. Why did he choose to have business in London, of all places?

“With me around, killing John would be tremendously ambitious of you,” Sherlock replied evenly. 

Franson gave a slight inclination of his head toward John and the three men standing behind him leapt into action. John concussed was at a huge disadvantage, but he put up a good fight. He lashed out his arms, forming tight fists.

It happened in a flash. Suddenly John was being held down, his wrists retied. Sherlock drew his gun, and aimed it at Franson.

“You let him go, or I’ll blow your head off.” Sherlock’s voice did not waver and John recognised it as his most dangerous tone. The one that meant Sherlock was deeply pissed off.

Franson laughed. He had the type of laugh that took up a lot of space. It was loud, overbearing, and entirely out of place. His perfectly straight white teeth glinted.

“You know, I think you mean it too.” From his belt he slowly drew a knife that was stout but very sharp. It picked up the sunlight that was reflected off of the Thames below and refracted the light into tiny spots all around them like small pirouetting stars. He drew the knife and pressed it to John’s throat. He laughed again as John tried to struggle against the ties and the three men. 

“I don’t think you’ll be blowing anyone’s head off, unless it’s his.” He reached out with one hand and traced John’s cheekbone with his fingertips. “He is quite handsome, Sherlock. I doubt you’d want to do that,” he teased. “Drop your gun into the Thames, or I will drag this blade across his skin.” John stared at Sherlock, trying to silently communicate.

A muscle twitched in Sherlock’s left temple, but he dropped the gun. It landed with a thick splash in the water below. “You will be destroyed, Franson; you and this whole operation. Soon, there will be nothing left.”

“Oh, operation? You make it sound so fancy. You mean the drugs?”He smiled at Sherlock, the blade not moving away from John even an inch. “It’s funny that you mention the drugs because I’ve had a little hang-up recently. Kind of a problem, you see. I think you and John here could help me though.” He gave that annoying grin again.

John’s mind was working in overtime. He was calculating every scenario he could think of to get out of his restraints and he saw Sherlock doing the same. The man to his left had a bad right knee. The man holding his wrists behind in an entirely too tight grip seemed to move a little slower than the rest. He couldn’t figure out Franson though. He was still a puzzle.

“I’m not playing this game,” Sherlock said. “Either you will cooperate, or I will use force.”

Franson chose to ignore Sherlock’s warning. Sherlock knew he sounded ridiculous threatening three armed men and a man with a knife with no weapon on himself to back him up. He was more than a little nervous, but he would never let that show.

“See, here’s the thing. We’ve been doing really well with this new drug, Scale.” He waved his free hand while he talked. “The high is great. It’s sort of a combination of cocaine because you can really get the speed and energy from it. But it has an LSD element of hallucinations that the customers just love. From here at home in London to Europe and even in America people are obsessing over this stuff. But people are becoming bored with it. Surely you know all about that, don’t you Sherlock? In fact, you’d be a great customer—you of all people—of course.” He grinned, looking up at Sherlock beneath his lashes.

He moved his free hand to John’s shoulder, his knuckles whitening under the grip.

John was struggling to stay awake—his head drooping—and Sherlock was starting to worry about the seriousness of the concussion. He hadn’t seen the blow in the dark; but he had heard it. 

“So here’s what I’ve done, Sherlock. I really like this idea, and I hope you’ll think it’s pretty good too. I created a new version of Scale. A liquid dose that can be applied on the skin. Something that gives the user a bigger bang, faster.” Franson’s eyes flashed in excitement. “But the problem is, I haven’t been able to test it on anyone, so I have no idea what it does. Maybe nothing, perhaps, but I think it’s pretty powerful. I’ve thrown in a few new ingredients too, just to try them out. See what their effects are.”

“You’re a lunatic,” Sherlock spat.

“Oh, I think the best people are. Now look here, at your dear John. He’s helping me out so much just by being here. The blade of a knife is a rather perfect surface you see, because the liquid drug adheres to the metal beautifully, but it can be transferred to the skin just as easily. He’s already had a pretty hefty dose just by the contact from the past few minutes, but what would happen if I broke the surface of the skin? How would it react with his blood? You’re a man of science, Sherlock, surely you understand my experiment?”

John was fully unconscious, his head rolling on Franson’s shoulder. Sherlock, overtaken by rage, lunged.

Franson swept the knife away from John’s throat and instead drew a line of blood down from his ear to the back of his neck. Sherlock was so full of fury he couldn’t completely register what he was witnessing until Franson threw John into the Thames. His mind switched into overdrive.

Snarling, Sherlock grabbed at Franson’s jacket lapels, throwing fists wildly while the three men who had just dumped John into the Thames grabbed him away from Franson.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps down the dock, running toward them and Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade and Donovan with their guns drawn.

 _Finally,_  thought Sherlock.

The colour drained from Franson’s face completely.

“Stop right there!” Lestrade yelled.

Without a second thought, Sherlock jumped off the dock and plunged into the River Thames below, after John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing more... so I've decided to expand this fic to be a bit longer than I planned. Now it stands at four chapters. This is a rough estimate rather than for certain.  
> No warnings for this chapter. Just enjoy!

The river was an icy bath, but Sherlock paid no attention to it. His mind was only concentrating on John. Although it seemed like ages had passed—between Franson throwing John into the river and Sherlock jumping in after—in reality, it could only have been less than a minute. Sherlock knew he didn’t have much time. He calculated the angle of John’s fall against his weight.

The fact that he was unconscious made the stakes even higher. Sherlock chose to dive at the same angle and position at which john was thrown, in order to mimic the effects, and to follow his path.

He didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t recover John. John had filled every corner of his life so effectively and fully that there was simply no room for him to leave. It was impossible. He didn’t know if he would be able to live with himself if anything happened to John because of him. The thought started small and expanded to a raw ache in Sherlock’s chest like a drop of ink into water.

The sooner Sherlock could get to John, the sooner he could get him to hospital. He hoped they could put a stop to whatever Franson had put on that blade.

The Thames was at high tide and the water was deep from the recent amount of rain. Sherlock opened his eyes under the murky water and searched for any John-shaped form he could. Bits of silt, clay, and tiny pebbles floated along the current with him. They were making it incredibly difficult to see anything in the water.

Up ahead a few metres he finally saw a dark mass, a form that was sinking slowly to the bottom of the Thames with a constant string of air bubbles rising above him. _John._

With a surge of adrenaline, he kicked himself forward through the muck, his clothes fully waterlogged and billowing out dramatically behind him. He grabbed John around the waist and pushed off the floor of the river with all of the power in his legs, fighting to break the surface.

John coughed and sputtered. Sherlock fought to keep them above the surface. The water lapped up in small waves around them, and Sherlock wanted to cry in relief at the sound of John breathing—but they certainly weren’t out of it yet.

Sherlock shouted over the roaring in his ears. “John, I need you to swim. I need you to move your arms for me.”

“Shhh…” said John, his eyes still closed. He kicked up to keep himself above the surface, but the majority of Sherlock’s strength was still keeping them afloat.

They were lucky. The water’s current was not so strong as to whisk them right away, but with enough strength, Sherlock managed to swim the two of them to shore. When they reached the closest rocky bank, Sherlock hauled John out of the river and onto the ground with the water trailing in great tides behind them.

John’s eyes were open now, but entirely unfocused. The cut from the knife was bleeding freely along his neck and Sherlock knew he needed to get him to hospital as soon as possible.

Sherlock looked up to see an ambulance flashing bright lights in the dusky sky of the evening on the street above them.

Lestrade had called the paramedics, and Sherlock realised that he must have done so as soon as he saw him jump into the river. For this, Sherlock was grateful.

At first, they didn’t want him riding in the same ambulance as John. They told him he needed separate care as well and they couldn’t do it properly in the same space. He was nearly suffering from hypothermia with the shock of the icy water as well, but Sherlock was insistent and stubborn. He wouldn’t leave John’s side, no matter what.

Besides, John needed him. He reached out for Sherlock, finding a cold, pale hand to meet his and he wrapped his fingers as tight as he could around his best friend’s wrist.

 

****

The next thing John knew was that he was in a hospital bed and they were running tests. He was hooked up to every machine possible. They were measuring his vital signs with a cacophony of beeps and bells and blinking lights. Sherlock was sitting in a chair next to him—still holding his hand—and he was talking rapidly to a doctor that was standing above the two of them. She was scribbling something down in her notepad. John caught the tail end of Sherlock’s conversation and suddenly shot up when he heard the word ‘drugged’.

It was a bad idea, sitting up. He felt disoriented, the room dancing around him in a dizzying spin. Sherlock’s hand came up to rest on his forehead and it was incredibly cool and comforting. John felt that he probably had a slight fever.

“Dr Watson, can you hear me?” The other doctor was speaking above him.

John nodded.

The doctor leaned down on the other side of the bed from Sherlock, so that she was eye-level with John.

“Hello there. My name is Dr Larson and I’m the primary who has been taking care of you. I’d like you to answer a few questions for me. Is that alright?”

John nodded again.

She held out her hands. “How many fingers?”

“Four,” John replied weakly.

“What is your full name?”

“John Hamish Watson.”

“What year is it?”

“2015.”

She smiled. “Good. That’s very good. Sherlock has explained everything to me, and you’re going to be just fine. You have a mild concussion and an eight-inch cut behind your ear, down to your neck. Quite long, but not deep enough for stitches. You’re running a very slight fever, but that’s normal and probably due to shock, and the cold water. We’re going to monitor you for just a few hours and then you’ll be free to go home.”

 _Home_. In that moment, all John wanted was to be sitting in the living room of 221B, curled up on the couch, listening to Sherlock play the violin. Or perhaps talk about some random case.

“Thank you, Doctor,” John managed.

“I’ll be back to check on you in half an hour.” She slipped out of the room, closing the door with a snap behind her.

Sherlock leaned across to the small table next to John’s bed and poured him water into a cheap yellow plastic cup. He pressed it to John’s lips and used his hand to guide John’s head upright.

 “Drink.” The deep baritone was the most comforting thing in the world to John at that moment and he internally sighed at the touch.

John took a long drink and Sherlock put the cup back onto the table beside them.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t,” said Sherlock. “This is all my fault.”

“It’s not.” John’s voice cracked.

“Yes it is. If I had done my research—”

“Sherlock, stop. Even you couldn’t take a whole drug syndicate down by yourself, no matter how much research you did. I was a fool for not stopping you in the first place.” 

Sherlock didn’t respond but instead stared at John like he needed to say something but couldn’t find the right words. John held his gaze and smiled slightly.

“So, thank you. You know, for saving my life.”

“I would do anything for you, John.”

John’s stomach did a little flip-flop. When he spoke, his voice came out rough. “So, what did I hear about being drugged?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked away from his face. John studied him in profile for the first time since they had been in the room. If John were to say that Sherlock looked tired, it would be a huge understatement. Purple shadows were blossoming underneath his eyes.

His curls were matted and frizzy, as though he had been running his fingers through them incessantly. John had the urge to reach out to caress one of Sherlock’s lovely cheekbones but stopped himself when he realised what he was thinking.

“What happened to you, love?” John’s entire face turned crimson at the slip of the word. His feelings for Sherlock were always something that he pushed down and repressed ever since their first meeting. Sherlock was married to his work; it was that simple. There were no expectations in their relationship and no romantic attachments. It was exactly what John needed at the time when they first met.  

But lately, John was finding that his feelings were coming to the surface and perhaps the fierce denial that seemed to slip from his lips every time someone made a comment about the two of them being together had some insight into his real feelings.

John slowly doubted the fact that he was entirely heterosexual, or perhaps heteroromantic. In fact, he had been doing his research. Late one night, using the laptop while Sherlock was in the kitchen working on an experiment, he learned that romantic feelings and sexual ones were not entirely dependent on each other—and then things began to click into place.

But John wasn’t ready for that conversation any time soon. “I’m sorry Sherlock, I don’t know what has gotten into me. I used to use terms of endearment with my family, I suppose it can be a bit of a habit sometimes when I’m not thinking straight.”

Sherlock was blushing too, John noticed. It was rather lovely, the slight rose-coloured flush creeping up on his cheeks. John—yet again—checked his thoughts.

“That’s quite alright John. Actually, I erm… don’t mind.”

“You don’t? Well, good. That’s…good.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “What is the last thing you remember about today?”

John thought back to the day, most of it was a senseless blur. “I remember standing up next to you on the dock. I think my hands were tied and you were talking. That’s about it.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “You were held at knifepoint for no less than eight minutes, although my guess is nine. Then, unconscious, you were thrown into the Thames and I proceeded to jump in after you. I got us to the shore before the paramedics took over. I received a text from Lestrade. Franson has been taken care of. There will be a trial with plenty of evidence against him. We won’t have to worry about it, unless Lestrade needs to take our statements.”

John processed Sherlock’s words. So that explained the cut then. “So my jumper is ruined.”

Sherlock nearly snorted. “Yes, John. That oatmeal coloured, overly worn jumper has finally found its home at the bottom of the Thames.”

“What about being drugged? Who was drugged?”

Sherlock suddenly looked uncomfortable, the teasing light shifting away from his eyes and away from John as well. “You were,” he said quietly.

“What happened to me?”

Sherlock stood up abruptly and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s just it John, nothing has happened. That knife was dipped into the drug and transferred through your skin and blood for nearly nine minutes, yet nothing is wrong. Your vitals are fine, besides a slight fever, normal heart rate and breathing. I just can’t bloody figure it out!” He was pacing around the hospital room and John noticed he was barefoot.

“Hey, take it easy. What happened to your shoes?”

“I lost them when I jumped. They’re happily cavorting with your jumper in the Thames .”

John resisted the urge to smile. “Listen, a man like Franson, who really knows what he was playing at? He could have been lying to frighten us.”

“He wasn’t lying, I can always tell when they’re lying. His conviction was that the knife was dipped in some sort of powerful drug. I saw it, John. I saw the coating on the blade.”

“Listen, it’s all over now and I’m okay. I’m a bloody doctor, for god’s sake! I think I’d know if I’d been drugged. I’m feeling better by the minute.”

Sherlock didn’t look convinced. “They’re still running a few more tests to make sure nothing is in your bloodstream.”

“Right. Then we’ll wait until they’re through, and then we’ll go home. Can’t you get Mycroft over here to bring you a pair of shoes or something?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not asking Mycroft for anything. We’ll take a taxi. I went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, I don’t need shoes to get me home to Baker Street.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, waiting for the results and listening to the coming and goings of the hospital around them. A nurse ran by in the hallway. Carts were pushed, their wheels squeaking nosily against the sterile flooring. The florescent lights were very bright in contrast to the deep navy of the sky outside. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the metal railing of John’s bed, tickling John’s cheek with the tips of his curls.

“Oi, you do know those curls take up more space than you realise?” He asked affectionately.

“Hmm,” responded Sherlock.

John gave up resisting and placed his hand in Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers through his scalp lightly and separating out the tangles.

“Mmm, John. Thank you,” he said sweetly with his eyes still closed. A small smile was tugging at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, and John’s heart once again turned over in his chest.

“You’re an overgrown cat, Sherlock. I can hear you purring from here.” Sherlock chuckled.

A few minutes later, Dr Larson walked in and shut the door closed behind her. Sherlock sat up blinking. “Good news, John. We haven’t found anything in your bloodstream. You look clean and we can discharge you now.”

John was thrilled. “Let’s go home, Sherlock.”

 

***

 

When they left the hospital, John was feeling pretty good despite being bone-tired and slightly unsteady on his feet. Sherlock helped him into the back of a taxi and sat down next to him in silence on the way back to Baker Street.

About five minutes into the drive, John began shivering. The shaking started in his legs and worked its way up to his torso. John simply couldn’t get warm. He didn’t know whether it was the exhaustion or the low temperature outside—or perhaps both—that was causing his body to have fits of tremors. He crossed his arms against his chest and tucked his head down.

Sherlock turned his head away from the window to focus on John. “What’s wrong?”

“Just… cold. I can’t get warm.”

John had lost his jacket in the river and Sherlock’s Belstaff was hanging in his closet back at their flat.

“We’ll be home soon and then you can get warmed up.”

John nodded, keeping his head down. They were nearly ten minutes from Baker Street and the shivering continued. Sherlock thought it was getting worse. He unbuckled his seat belt and scooted over to John, hesitating at first as if asking permission.

 John seemed to not notice. Sherlock placed a light hand on his friend’s shoulder and felt the vibration racking John uncontrollably.

John leaned into the touch, turning his body slightly to Sherlock’s, and it was all the permission Sherlock needed to wrap his arms tightly around John, tucking the smaller man’s head into his chest and wrapping his arms to rest against John’s back in an awkward hold-hug.

“I think perhaps we should turn around—”

“No!” said John. “No, I’m p-perfectly okay. Just a b-bit c-cold.”

Sherlock decided not to argue. It was faster to get to their flat than to turn around. At least he knew he could help John once they got home.

The taxi pulled up to 221B, and with one arm still holding John, Sherlock vehemently flung a wad of cash at the driver and ushered John out of the car and into 221B as briskly as he could.

John went ahead of Sherlock toward the bathroom. “Hot shower,” he mumbled. After he closed the door, Sherlock could hear the sound of the water running. He stood there for a moment listening carefully to make sure John was okay, before realising that shadowing the door for the duration of John’s shower could possibly be a bit not good.

This was quite different from the way cases usually worked between the two of them. It was always John taking care of Sherlock. John was the one that made sure he ate, made sure he slept, let Sherlock know when he wasn’t being polite— _a bit not good_ —and cleaned his wounds when they both got hurt.

The complete flip that had happened in the past twenty-four hours made Sherlock question his adequacy as John’s friend. When it came down to it, could he possibly take care of John as well as John took care of him?

Sherlock walked into his bedroom and carefully shred his clothes that smelled faintly of muck from the riverbed. He changed into a soft tee shirt, pyjama bottoms, and his favourite blue dressing gown. It was obvious that he needed a shower to clear out all of the filth in his hair from the river.

Although he felt better after changing, his doubts about his role of caretaker were still there. John was always at his side, ready to take on anything. Now, it was Sherlock’s turn. He wasn’t sure if he could properly return the favour as eloquently as John had done in the past.

He heard the bathroom door open and a few moments passed before John’s bedroom door was shut.

***

John didn’t know exactly what was happening with his body other than everything felt _so bloody cold_. It was as if he was incapable of retaining heat. Frantically searching through his closet for the warmest thing he could find, John threw on a thick Christmas jumper, a pair of trousers, two pairs of socks, and mittens.

The bed looked inviting but the couch sounded better. Still trembling, John grabbed the duvet off of his bed and threw it around his shoulders before walking downstairs into the living room in all of his layers like an overstuffed teddy bear.

Sherlock was in the kitchen making tea. One glance at the mound of fabric moving slowly across their living room to the couch, made him pause.

“John, are you still fidgeting under all of those fabrics?” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

John deigned to answer. “Yes. I can’t get warm.”

“I think it would be best if you lay down.”

John turned his body horizontal within his fabric cocoon.

“I mean in bed. You’re fatigued.”

“No, I’d rather stay out here.”

“Why? Surely your bed is more comfortable, and it retains more heat.”

There was a pause. “Because I don’t want to be alone,” came the words quietly from the cocoon. 

Sherlock walked into the living room with two large steaming mugs of tea, sitting down on the edge of John’s duvet. “I’ll stay with you then, if you’d prefer. We’ll both go upstairs.”

“You don’t mind?” John poked his head out. His voice was hesitant and jittery.  

“Of course not. Haven’t I proved my fidelity today? I’m going to take care of you.”

“I’m the doctor. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

“When you’re feeling better, I’ve no doubt that it will be.”

John sat up and took the cup from Sherlock’s hands. After gulping down their tea in silence, Sherlock followed John into his bedroom.

John, still racked with tremors, fell gracelessly onto the left side of the bed. It was a cosy little bedroom—compared to the starkness of Sherlock’s own room—with a small red lamp that gave off a warm glow. Sherlock took off his dressing gown and placed it neatly over the back of John’s chair. He stood nervously by the edge of the bed, deciding whether or not to get in.

John’s breathing was uneven and it was beginning to worry the both of them, although John would never have admitted it aloud.

“I think I should call 999,” said Sherlock. “Possibly there was something in your bloodstream that they failed to catch. A delayed reaction.”

“No, please. I’ll be fine, just turn off the bloody light and get in.”

A moment passed and the light was switched off with a click. John felt the mattress dip as Sherlock settled in next to him.

They laid in silence for a few minutes, John drawing his arms around himself to stop from shaking too hard. He clamped his eyes shut, wishing himself to sleep, but it was a long shot and he knew it.

He felt Sherlock turn toward him in the dark, his body emitting a pleasant heat.

Uncertain hands reached out to him, drawing John’s arms gently away from his chest. Instead, Sherlock placed John’s arms around his own bare neck, the warmth of his skin seeping into John’s cold fingertips.

John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat.

Sherlock circled his arms around John and held him tight, willing the shaking to stop.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded into his chest. “Yeah, alright,” he whispered.

“Now please—John—sleep.”


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up the next morning to an empty bed with the sheets kicked around him. The mittens he had put on the night previous were thrown on the floor. His socks were halfway rolled down his feet. Sherlock was gone too.

But then John noticed that he felt perfectly normal, in fact, he felt good. The chill that had wracked his body the night before seemed to have left, leaving no traces behind.

He took a deep breath and sat up, savouring the gentle heat of the sunlight coming through his bedroom windows. It had to be nearly ten o’clock already.

There was a quiet knock on his bedroom door and Sherlock shuffled in with two cups of tea. When he saw that John was awake, he gave him a small smile.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, handing John a mug and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Much better.” He took a sip and swallowed with a grimace. It tasted like an overzealous Christmas pudding with too much currant, cinnamon, apple, and cloves. “What happened to PG tips?

“This is supposed to be warming. It’s full of antioxidants—” He paused when he saw that John was gaping at him. “What?”

“Did you go shopping while I was sleeping?” John asked incredulously.

“Well, yes John. Did you think that the tea went out and bought itself? I also got all of those biscuits you’re so fond of, some Jammie Dodgers, Hobnobs—I couldn’t remember if you liked Tunnock’s Tea Cakes better or the caramel wafers—so I just bought both.” John was still staring at him. “And I got you soup,” Sherlock added, “The Chicken Orzo from Sainsbury’s. Oh! And I picked up some more paracetamol tablets from Boots and I was going to stop at Pret for a cheese and tomato croissant because I know that’s what you—”

“You don’t have to do all of this,” John said abruptly.

Sherlock frowned slightly. “But I want to.”

John smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock, really. But I don’t want you to get too caught up in taking care of me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, I really do, but I just feel like…” he paused looking down at the duvet between them, worrying at the edge of the fabric with his fingers. He tried again. “I just feel like the only reason why you’re doing all of this is because you feel guilty. And I don’t want that. I knew exactly what I was taking on when I agreed to come with you.”

“No,” Sherlock said impatiently with a perfunctory wave of his hand. “I’ve already tried to tell you. I’m not doing all of this because I feel guilty. It’s because you’re my best friend and I want to make sure you’re okay. I will worry incessantly about you until I know that you’re better.”

John nodded; he could feel his heartbeat increasing. _Sherlock worried about him?_  Sherlock continued. “I’ve never actually had anyone to worry about before.” John quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. As if I would ever worry about Mycroft. He’s got the entire British Government to look after, or rather, I think it might be the other way around.” Sherlock sighed. “My point is, I care about you John, deeply.”

John nodded at the duvet again. He was having a difficult time finding the right words. To hear Sherlock say something so personal and full of feeling aloud was a rare experience. It was a glimpse into the man who never showed his true emotions to anyone and it made John feel all the more flattered that it was him who Sherlock chose to share this with. The silence seemed to stretch between the two of them. The doctor was replaying the words Sherlock had just uttered over in his head. _So that’s why_ , he thought.

“Is it always like this?” Sherlock asked softly. “Worrying about someone? It’s exhausting. It’s like having a second self attached to you, except you don’t know what that part is thinking or feeling ever. So it’s a constant stream of guessing and speculating and feeling powerless.”

“Hey,” John reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it slightly. “It’s all okay. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m feeling great this morning. Whatever happened last night, let’s just put it behind us and focus on the next case, okay?”

Sherlock let out a breath of air and nodded. “You frightened me.”

John laughed. “Now you know how I feel half the time, with you chasing after criminals in dark alleys while I’m at the surgery.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

John tilted his head to the left slightly. “Well, now you do I guess.”

They sat in contemplative silence for a few more moments. This time it felt comfortable. John swore he could hear Mrs Hudson’s voice carry up from the street, having a conversation with one of the neighbours down below. He tried sipping his tea.

“You don’t have to drink it. I know you don’t like it.”

John grinned. “Have you tried it?” Sherlock shook his head. “It tastes like a bloody christmas ornament. Go on, then.” He handed him the mug.

He took a large gulp and narrowed his eyes. “With enough sugar, it wouldn’t be too bad.”

“It’s all yours, the whole box. But really, thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Did you manage to get anything useful? Milk or bread perhaps? Or are we just going to live off biscuits and chocolate for the next three days?”

“John, I told you I bought soup!” Sherlock said indignantly and stood up and walked to the doorway. “Why would I ever buy milk or bread, when that’s your job?” He left John’s room with a smirk. John wanted to chuck a Jammie Dodger at his head.

 

Peace had seemed to be restored to 221B. Mrs Hudson came around that afternoon for tea, listening to John’s dramatic retelling of the events of the last 24 hours, with Sherlock adding random titbits of his own information thrown in distractedly from the kitchen, where he was working on an experiment.

“I’m always telling you boys to be careful, but John, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“I am, thanks to Sherlock.”

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at him. “Will this one be on the blog, then? I do look forward to reading about your adventures.”

“Of course, Mrs Hudson. I was planning on writing it up sometime today or tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring up something for lunch tomorrow. Nothing like a nice homemade meal to make you feel better.”

“That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure Sherlock would enjoy it too.”

Mrs Hudson finished her tea and stood up. “Well, I’d best leave you two to it. I’m glad you’re doing better John. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door closed behind her and John took her empty cup into the kitchen.

“Please don’t write this case up,” Sherlock said, without looking up from his microscope.

“Why not?”

“The sentimentality would kill me.”

“You wanker. I might still.”

“John.”

“Hm?”

“I count this case as a loss. It’s not one I’m proud of.”

“They can’t always be winners.”

"I don't want everyone knowing about it." 

"That's too bad. It's my blog, I'm going to put what I want on it," John said mildly. 

“Why don’t you write some of that crap poetry to one of your girlfriends instead?” Sherlock suddenly spat with venom.

“Hey, take it easy, Sherlock!” John shouted. His words stung. Not wanting to argue any more, or give him the chance to say anything further, he decided to leave him to his stroppy mood and science experiment. John balled his hands into fists at his side and walked out into the living room, putting on his shoes. He slammed the front door behind him as he left. John knew his behaviour was childish but Sherlock knew how to get under his skin like no one else could.

He breathed deeply into the London evening. The streetlamps were just turning on and casting a hazy orange glow around him. The pavement was damp from an afternoon of rain and a warm breeze wisped by occasionally as he headed up to Regent’s Park for a walk. He wished he had breadcrumbs to feed the ducks. There were at least ten of them milling about the walkway near the water and they scattered as John approached.

Despite getting a little hot-headed, John was not mad at Sherlock. He had taken worse insults from the detective before without so much as a bat of the eye. But tonight had been different, and John supposed it was because of the tender nature that Sherlock had shown him earlier in the day. The contrast between the two personalities that the man could display in a matter of seconds—not hours—was always startling to John.

It was fully dark now. His stomach growled and he thought back to what he had eaten. It wasn’t much besides a few biscuits and some tea. He turned around and walked out of the park, taking his phone out of his pocket. He almost considered not texting Sherlock at all, _the git_ , but then he thought better of it.

_Thai or Chinese?_

_Thai. SH_

John turned the corner onto Paddington Street where their favourite Thai restaurant sat. It was a shabby little café fitted with second hand tables and chairs, but the food was always outstanding. They had been coming there together for a little over a year, stopping once in a while for takeaway and rarely staying to eat. As John ordered their usual—red curry with squash for Sherlock and Pad Thai for himself—he began to feel nauseated. He sat down in a corner to wait for their takeaway. The smell of lemongrass, garlic, and ginger—usually enticing—was making John feel sick. It was suffocating and it made him wonder how long he would be able to sit there without actually being sick right in the middle of the dining room.

Thankfully, the boxes were packed up and put in John’s hands faster than usual.

“Tell Sherlock hello for me, John!” said the café owner to John’s hastily retreating figure.

Holding the bag away from himself as if to quell the smell, John walked as quickly as he could back to 221B, focusing on not emptying the contents of his stomach into the nearest bin.

He walked through the door and put the food on the table, where Sherlock was still staring through his microscope.

“Dinner.” John said before leaving from the room in a flash, as if running from a criminal with a loaded gun.

John sat on the couch and put his head between his knees, taking deep even breaths. He felt the couch sink next to him.

“If this is about earlier—”

“It’s not, don’t worry about it.”

“John—”

“Just bloody eat, will you?”

He felt Sherlock stand up and there was a rustling of plastic as he unpacked the takeaway.

As the nausea started to fade away from John, it was replaced by something else. He _needed_ something but he couldn’t quite place what. It was a growing hunger spreading through him like wildfire. He wanted food, but yet the thought of the takeaway was still repulsive. He sat on the couch for a few minutes considering what it was his body was asking for. He wasn't thirsty, and he didn't need any more medicine. As for food, it wasn’t Thai, nor Chinese, nor Italian nor Mexican… _oh!_ He shot up off the couch, turning to the kitchen with his jacket half on.

“Fancy some sushi?”

“What?” Sherlock was halfway to eating a large bite of squash covered in red sauce. John’s stomach turned over at the sight. Sherlock put his chopsticks down, frowning. “I though we were having Thai.”

“I think we should go have sushi.” John was practically manic. “It sounds good, doesn’t it? We always get Thai or Indian or some other takeaway but we never go for sushi! C’mon, Sherlock! If you don’t go with me, I’m still going by myself.” He grabbed his keys and took a few steps to the door.

Sherlock surveyed his best friend, slightly concerned. He couldn’t tell if John was still upset with him, or just halfway out of his mind.

“Yeah, alright. Take my scarf.” He threw the deep blue-fringed scarf at John, who caught it and tied it around his neck neatly before locking the door behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

John, being the shortest of the pair, usually had to walk a little faster to keep up with Sherlock’s habitual fast stride. But this time he was nearly running down the street with Sherlock in tow.

Baker Street was normally a quiet part of the city that didn’t attract too much attention; but this evening it was busy with people milling about, doing evening shopping and getting dinner before they settled in for the night. Sherlock kept a steady eye on John as he attempted to follow him through the crowd. 

“John, where do you think we’re going?”

They had prearranged restaurants for everything from Greek to Mexican. Their terms were whatever was close, good quality, and whether Sherlock knew the owner or not. A sushi restaurant was not on the list.

“Baker Street Station! I know a great place in Bethnal Green, I took Sarah there once.” John was already reaching into his wallet for his Oyster card as they descended the steps to the underground. The florescent lights of the station were a stark contrast to the soft tones of the evening sky above.

“Bethnal Green is a bit far for just sushi. That’s three different tube lines.”

“So? It’s really good, I swear. Worth the ride.”

“Madman.” Sherlock whispered under his breath.

“I heard that.”

Sherlock didn’t argue. He had never seen John as overtaken with an idea as he was about getting sushi for dinner clear on the other side of town.

The train was packed with a rush of people scrambling to get home to their families for the night. They couldn’t get a seat and with the amount of people standing between them, it was even harder to keep up a conversation. Sherlock kept an eye on John; John’s eyes were wide open, darting around the carriage looking at everything from the map of the stops above him, to the woman carefully applying makeup to his right. A slick sheen of sweat had broken out over his forehead. Sherlock attributed it to the amount of bodies so close together; it really was quite warm.

When they changed to the Central Line at Holborn, Sherlock’s mind was working in overdrive trying to deduce what was going on with John. He kept his head down--watching the black and white floor tiles blur past--not really seeing them, as he followed John rushing ahead to the next train. He thought about John’s condition, still perplexed. On the eastbound train to Bethnal Green, they managed to get a seat together. It was only a few minutes’ ride, but John was fidgeting like a restless child.

“You alright?” Sherlock murmured under his breath.

“Yeah, of course. Just a bit hungry.”

“And Thai wasn’t good enough?”

“Didn’t sound good.”

“Right.” Sherlock said, frowning. John was not a picky eater to begin with. In fact, Sherlock couldn’t always comprehend the amount of food that the doctor could eat in a single day. Three meals! Thinking about eating three full meals a day made Sherlock shudder slightly. It would slow him down so much he would never be able to solve a case properly. 

“Out with it. What are you thinking?” John turned to him, his knee brushing against Sherlock’s lightly.

He inhaled deeply and took a quick inventory of what he saw. “Dilated pupils, rapid pulse, the slight flush on your cheeks, the constant fidgeting: all symptoms of someone who is either afraid; sexually aroused, suffering from lack of sleep, or under the influence of drugs. And I think we can eliminate at least two of those since there is no immediate threat to your well-being, nor are there any women sitting near us who look like they fall under the ‘typical women John dates’ category. Plus—”

“’Typical women I date,’ what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock ignored him, “Plus, I happen to know that you got an adequate amount of sleep last night since I was with you the whole time you tossed and turned and kicked me in the ribs. So, the only thing that hasn’t been eliminated is the possibility of drugs.”

“I’m just bloody hungry is all! And I didn’t kick you in the ribs, you dramatic prat.”

“You did. I probably have a bruise. But the point is—and I keep coming back to this—is that knife.”

“Not possible. It’s been over twenty-four hours,” argued John. “Whatever it was, if it was in my system to begin with, it has to be gone by now.”

“It might be gone, but you could still have symptoms.”

They arrived at Bethnal Green station and got out of the carriage. Sherlock decided to drop the subject for the time being.

They climbed up the stairs onto the street and John lead them around a dark green pub on the corner and past a brightly lit Sainsbury’s, coming to stop at a small Japanese restaurant across the next street. To Sherlock, it looked very unimpressive. There were six tables crammed into a small space with faux plastic grass in the window display, and a few pathetic painted fish as a decoration.

“You took Sarah here?”

“It was erm.. pretty late at night. I think we were both fairly drunk. It was really good at the time--I swear-- but it does look a bit different than what I remember.” John was beginning to have doubts about his choice. Why did he want to come all the way over here? Half an hour ago, it seemed like the best idea in the world but now it just seemed absurd.

“Let me get this straight: we came all the way across London to eat at some Japanese restaurant that you thought was really good when you were drunk. A restaurant that looks like some child drew fish on the window in coloured marker. Jesus, John. I think you’re mad.”

John coloured slightly, grinning at him. “Well, we’re here. Let’s make the best of it.”

Inside there were a few older couples sitting close together in quiet conversation. The interior wasn’t much better than the outside; the floor was covered in a muddy brown carpet, and it stank slightly of fish and vinegar. John ordered them a pot of green tea and picked up the menu. Sherlock studied his with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t get the squid, or the tuna. It’ll definitely make you sick. They haven’t ordered fresh for at least three days. Have you heard of fish fraud? Half of the stuff on this menu is grouper.”

John didn’t want to ask how he’d sussed that one out, and he didn't know what the hell 'fish fraud' meant. He ignored his friend's comments. “Are we sharing?” he asked instead. 

“I think we should. I’m not planning on eating very much.”

After ordering for the two of them, John sat back trying not to think about his hunger. Christ, he was hungry.

Sitting on the table was a bottle of soy sauce, a few salt and sugar packets, and some empty dipping bowls. Suddenly overcome with (what he thought was) a good idea, John lifted a dipping bowl and poured a generous amount of soy sauce into it. He stared at it for a moment as if carefully contemplating what he was about to do, before lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking the liquid as if it were water.

When he looked back up, Sherlock was staring at him, mouth agape. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“Have you ever noticed how delicious soy sauce tastes? That’s the whole thing about Japanese food, you know. The simplicity of the ingredients, enjoying how perfect each component is.” He poured more and sipped it thoughtfully.

“John, do you realise how much salt is in that?” The worry lines on Sherlock’s brow increased.

“Mhmm. It’s what makes it so good, I think.” John took a deep breath. He was beginning to feel better again; the cloudiness in his head dissipating. He attributed it to the soy sauce, and drank some more.

Sherlock wanted to snatch the bowl away from him but before he could do so, John froze suddenly, and looked up at him.

“What the hell am I doing?” Perhaps clarity had reached John, at last.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering for the past hour.”

John looked down, uncertainty spreading through his body; a blush was working its way up his cheeks. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I went for a walk in Regent’s park and I was starving. Then I got the Thai and it smelled revolting, I mean utterly horrible—it made me sick. So I thought this would be better, but I suppose it’s because I’ve just been craving something that I can’t place, and I don’t even know why.”

Before Sherlock could respond, their food arrived. John took one look at the salmon rolls and frowned. The detective took a roll from the plate with his chopsticks and dipped it into John’s bowl of sauce. He noticed that the doctor was still looking at the food, but not eating it.

John put down his chopsticks and picked up a sushi roll with his fingers, unwrapping the seaweed from the rice, then dipping the strip into the soy and proceeding to eat it. He closed his eyes.

 “I think that’s what I’ve been craving,” he said.

“The seaweed?”

“Yeah. God, it tastes so good. It’s like the best thing I’ve ever tasted, I think.”

“You’ve had sushi before,” Sherlock pointed out.

“But this is different. Maybe I’ve just never noticed it.” John turned in his chair and got the server’s attention. He came up to the table, and John looked up at him, determined. The last time Sherlock saw John give that same fevered look to someone was when he asked out a woman.

“This seaweed that you use to wrap the rolls in, can I get it just by itself please?”

“The nori?” The server frowned, faintly confused. “It comes in sheets, the texture is stiff until it comes in contact with the rice. It’s really not all that appetising, to be honest.”

“Yeah, can I get a few sheets of it?”

“Certainly, sir.” With a frown, he turned from the table.

“John, this is embarrassing.”

“Since when do you care what people think?”

 It was the strangest Sherlock had ever seen John act. To say that they had been through a lot together was a vast understatement. After years of numerous cases, Sherlock had thought he had seen it all. Now, his best friend was acting stranger than he’d ever seen him before and he was convinced that it had to do with their last case. He thought about going to St. Bart’s in the morning to run a few tests, if he could coax John into coming with him. Perhaps he would make up some story about an experiment for Lestrade.

The nori sheets sat gracelessly on a plate between them. John reached out and grabbed one. It reminded Sherlock of cellophane because of the way it shined as John tore it into pieces. Hell, it even sounded like cellophane crinkling. He finished the whole plate in a matter of minutes.

“Can we go home now?” Sherlock asked once the plate had been finished.

 

* * *

 

It was nearing eleven o’clock as they made their way back to Baker Street. John no longer looked like he was ill; the increased pulse and temperature had subsided. Instead, he was calm, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the glass window behind the seats. They had the tube carriage to themselves.

“I promise I won’t do that again.” John said quietly with his eyes still closed.

Sherlock studied the way John’s eyelashes delicately rested against his skin when his eyes were shut. The light in the carriage should have washed him out, but it only made him more beautiful. He noticed that John was allowing his hair to grow longer. Normally by now he would have cut it. Sherlock thought it made him look younger and more vulnerable which somehow suited him. With a tug somewhere in his chest, Sherlock knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for him. "Do what? Drag me across town so that you can eat dried up old seaweed paper?”he asked John. 

John chuckled, and without moving his head, lazily opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. The detective was trying hard not to smile, but failed spectacularly.

Sherlock’s phone chimed and he looked away from John to glance at the screen.  

“Lestrade?”

“Mhm. There’s been two men found shot at a flat in Kingston, near the university. I declined.”         

“You didn’t take the case?”

 “Nope.”

 John cocked his head. “Sherlock Holmes, not taking a case. A double suspected murder to boot. I’d say you’re feeling ill, but you look fine.”

“I want to stay in. Besides, the case is hardly a three.”

“You’re not bored?”

 “Hardly, John. I have a few things to put up on my website tonight—a new type of tobacco ash, in fact. It’s a breakthrough.”

 

When they got back, John sat on the couch, switching through the telly. With a dramatic flop, Sherlock landed next to him with his laptop on his knees. He began to type vigorously on his computer. When John leaned over slightly, he saw an astute analysis of an American brand of tobacco ash.

“Reading over my shoulder again?”

“Just curious.”

“It’s certainly more interesting than whatever that is,” Sherlock said, nodding his head to the telly.

“The news? Well, I suppose you’re probably right.” The BBC icon flashed on the screen. John turned through the channels, settling on a nature programme about foxes.

The programme ended, and a new one started about the life of honeybees.

“Now that’s more like it,” Sherlock said, closing his laptop.

John tried to look indignant, but failed when he saw how absorbed his best friend was in the telly. He yawned; it was getting quite late and the pleasant warmth of the living room was both comforting and soporific. He stared bleary-eyed at the screen watching the insects fly and golden honey drip languidly. The doctor began to nod off to the sound of fluttering bees.

* * *

 

“John?”

“Mmph.”

“You’re cutting off the circulation in my arm.”

John sat up slowly realising that the warm comfortable object he had been leaning on had in fact not been a pillow.

“Sorry…that,” he waved his hand vaguely, hardly awake.

“Do you want to go up to bed?” Sherlock asked quietly. John’s eyes snapped open; he saw that the room was dark except for the glow of the lamps coming through the windows from Baker Street. The telly had been shut off for some time with the quietness a tangible thing between them. He didn’t want to go up to his bed. 

“Not really,” he said honestly.

“Want to talk about it? You've been sleeping on the couch most nights.” Sherlock said. 

“Not really.”

“Nightmares?”

“Mhm.” He began to close his eyes again, keeping his head upright.

“What if I was there?” John could hear the hesitation in Sherlock’s voice; a quiet lilt to his tone that suggested nervousness.

“You want to sleep in my bed again?”

“I was merely providing it as an option to make you feel better. That is all,” he said sharply: the quiet hesitance in his tone disappeared completely.

John licked his lips briefly and he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. The bastard could probably see the pulse pounding in his neck. “You could. I wouldn’t mind," he said softly. 

“You wouldn’t?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

John stood up and reached out his hand to help his friend off the couch, but Sherlock hesitated. “C’mon, then.”

“You’re sure, John?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Jesus.” John was exasperated. It was nearing two am.

“You want me to sleep in bed with you?”

“Yes, I want you to sleep in bed with me!” John’s voice had risen to a loud volume and his words seemed to cut sharply through the quiet room. He frowned. Now people would talk. 

“Well,” Sherlock said with a grin, “if you insist—John—then yes, I’ll come to bed with you.” He took John’s hand, stood up, and climbed up the stairs to his bedroom.

John stood frowning next to the couch watching his best friend's retreating back. Was that Sherlock's way of _flirting?  
_

He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands and followed him up to bed. 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

When John entered his bedroom, Sherlock was already lying down with the covers drawn up around him. He avoided his gaze, walked to the left side of the bed, and got in quickly, drawing the duvet around him like a small sanctuary.

“Light off?” he asked Sherlock.

“Yes.”

John hit the lamp switch and lay rigidly on his back definitely not sleeping and he didn’t feel like he could. He didn’t dare even to reach out and seek Sherlock’s fingers, although he desperately wanted to. The doctor could nearly hear the cogs of Sherlock’s mind working overtime.

Sherlock lay on his back with his eyes open staring into the dark ceiling of John’s bedroom barely daring to breathe. He listened to his friend’s breathing pattern begin to slow down and relax, when the doctor suddenly turned on his side toward him and asked, “why now?”

John wanted to know why of all nights Sherlock had decided this was the one he would spend with him. Although, technically, this wasn’t the first time they had shared a bed. Last night, for instance, must have counted for something. There had been a few times on cases when they didn’t have a choice and the hotel couldn’t provide extra accommodation. He didn’t suppose the previous night or any of those other times had counted because the circumstances had been different. There was always a _reason,_ albeit a weak one _._ Tonight felt different because it was a decision that they made together outright; it went against logic and reason, instead bordering on sentiment and feeling.

There was no response from the other side of the bed and John realised that Sherlock was feigning sleep.

“On average, it takes one about fourteen minutes to fall asleep naturally.”

No response, again.

John might not have been a genius but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. “Right then. Goodnight Sherlock.”

He was living with a child.

* * *

 

With the breath caught in his lungs, John’s eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed. It took him a moment to remember his surroundings. John’s bedroom was still completely dark and he knew that he had been asleep for a few hours at least. He was having a dream about running through an old tunnel that wound around itself, like the ever-moving underbelly of a snake. They were underneath the Thames. Sherlock had been ahead of him and he couldn’t catch up; the tunnel just kept winding and sliding.   

John was trembling. Sweat had broken out over his face and he needed fresh air. Beside him, Sherlock actually slept with his breathing even and measured. John couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Sherlock in a proper sleep.

But the heat that his body was radiating was suffocating.

As his body shook, John tried to assess the situation logically. He mentally took his vitals. His mind automatically went back to being held at knifepoint and he remembered the firm hands of Franson gripping his shoulder; they were oddly small and strong fingers that kept his skin held against the metal. Perhaps he should begin to consider the possibility that Sherlock was right. If it wasn’t drugs, there was a chance it could be psychological; he certainly knew all about that. He hadn’t seen his therapist since he met Sherlock, and John thought that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to see her again.

He needed to get out of bed to cool down because sitting up wasn’t doing anything to help him; it was only causing him to panic more. The peculiar feeling of a strong longing was returning; he was yearning for something to eat. He thought back to the sushi restaurant and it dawned on him that he wanted more of the nori. John’s eyes widened through the darkness at the thought of the seaweed. The nori was essential; it clouded his mind and he could only think of the delicate crunch it produced.

John got out of bed, his legs feeling like gelatine. He had lost all feeling of them and they didn’t seem to want to follow his command. In the back of his mind, the doctor was very alarmed but he simply couldn’t think properly. Not expecting the rubber-like quality, john’s legs gave out beneath him as he stood fully upright next to the bed and he dropped onto the floor.

Sherlock was up in a flash, a mop of unruly curls silhouetted, sitting in bed by the faint light from the window. The duvet had fallen half off of him and onto the floor.

“John. What’s wrong?” his voice was tinged with the blurry edges of sleep.

“Nothing. Go back to bed, I just need some water.”

Sherlock was not so easily fooled. “Your voice. Something’s wrong.”

“Everything’s fine, please go back to sleep.” John stood up, paying close attention to his legs. He had to focus on standing without them giving up underneath him again. He was faintly thinking about how the loss of feeling in his legs probably meant poor blood circulation, which could lead to very serious things such as a stroke. But he had a priority first.

He threw on a pair of trousers, a sweater, and dirty trainers before grabbing his wallet. He could nearly taste the nori in his mouth, the salty crunch of chlorophyll mixed with something more elemental and oceanic.

“You need your trousers and keys to go to the kitchen for water?”

“Leave it, Sherlock,” John growled. He left the room, bounding down the stairs like a bloodhound on a scent. Again, a small voice in the back of his mind was telling him that what was happening was certainly _not good_.

He locked the door to 221B firmly behind him and listened for a moment to see if Sherlock would follow. He didn’t. Satisfied, John walked down Baker Street, racking his brain for where he could find nori at before the break of dawn.  

John was wearing a jacket, but shed it quickly as he walked in the early fog of the morning. It certainly was cold, the chill settling down and making its home in the city like an insidious crawling creature into the cracks of cement and brickwork of London. However, John was immune. His body temperature was steadily increasing.

He knew of a small Japanese market that he had been to once with Sherlock in the middle of a case. They watched their suspect from the window, between isles of bright red pocky cookies and bags of grassy-smelling green teas. Sherlock had knocked over a display of glass sugary sodas, the liquid seeping into their shoes as they ran out. His boots had been sticky for days afterward. John hoped they wouldn’t recognise him, but even more so he hoped that it would be open.

He took a cab and hastily gave directions. It was a very short ride; he was in luck. The market was a 24-hour one that shone up ahead to their left.

“Listen,” said John to the cabbie, “could you please just wait here for a couple of minutes, and I’ll be right back?”

“Yeah, alright. I’m just going to pull over here.” The cabbie pointed to an empty spot on the other side of the street. “But I need you to pay me for the first part, just in case you don’t run away and leave without giving me the fare.”

John’s trembling hands reached into his wallet and peeled back the notes from one handing the cabbie fifteen pounds. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

There was no one in the market except for an elderly woman behind the counter reading a magazine. She looked up as John entered.

“I’m looking for nori, or seaweed. Any type of seaweed you might have,” John said in a rush.

She frowned slightly, put down her magazine, and picked up a thermos of tea sitting on the counter next to her. With excruciating slowness, she unscrewed the lid and took a sip.

“Please, I’m in a bit of a rush,” John pleaded.

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say.

“You can find it yourself then, if you’re in such a hurry.” She picked her magazine back up.

John couldn’t believe his luck. Perhaps she did remember him from the soda mishap. He tore through the isles looking for anything that resembled nori, avoiding the displays of noodles and sacks of rice.

He finally found what he was looking for, tucked in the back of the store. There were plastic packs jammed full with sheets of nori. John couldn’t read the Japanese, but he didn’t need to to know what they were. He grabbed every pack off of the shelf, making his arms completely full. He couldn’t see anything in front of him as he walked back to the front of the store.

He dumped his nori on the counter in front of the woman and the shiny plastic packets spread across the surface.

“Are we having a sushi party? She asked.

“Erm, yeah,” said John, focusing on standing upright. If he didn’t start eating the stuff now, he was going to faint. He could feel the sweat dripping down the side of his neck. It dawned on him that he must look like some kind of crazed addict.

She rang them up excruciatingly slow. Each pack was passed under the laser to read the barcode before being meticulously placed in a brown paper bag.

John took the huge sack and bid her a good morning with dry irony and left the market with the tinkle of the bell behind him.

He jumped into the back of the cab.

“Baker Street please! Do you mind if I open these?”

* * *

 

 

John stumbled through the door of 221B, three packs of nori consumed, the rest of the brown sack still overstuffed. The sun was beginning to shine its light over London and through the curtains it created an ethereal glow, illuminating dust patterns through their living room.

He was still ravenous. The nori wasn’t doing anything. John was full on panting by now, going into the kitchen, deftly slamming cupboards—pausing as he found a jar of hydrochloric acid and some unmarked canister that just read ‘thumbs 1890-1920’—searching for god knows what and not caring who heard in the process.

In the cabinet where they kept the tea was a large salt container, no doubt used for some of Sherlock’s experiments, but this one didn’t have any markings or references to appendages. John’s eyes widened as he grabbed the bright blue jar. He dumped a hefty amount of the salt into a teacup and poured water from the tap directly over. John gulped the salt water down like a man who had been dying of thirst in a desert. John slid down, his back against the counter and sat on the floor of his kitchen, gulping down the salt water.

His heart rate returned to normal and John sat on the floor of his kitchen completely dishevelled, his legs out at a 90 degree in front of him. He drained the cup and knew that it was about time he began to seek medical attention. Something was happening to him that he couldn’t explain and it wasn’t a vitamin deficiency. He shouldn’t have been craving this much salt.

He reached above his head without looking and felt for the paper sack on the counter. With a comedic smack, the entire thing turned upside down and fell. Plastic packages slid over John’s head and tumbled into his lap; a few landed on the floor next to him. He half-heartedly grabbed a package and tore it open and began to eat the nori while staring at the floor. He wondered whom he could go to talk to without sounding like a complete lunatic. Perhaps Mike, he might understand if John could relate the recent events to him.

John was still staring at the floor when two pairs of feet were suddenly standing in the doorway—a pair of elegantly bare feet framed by a familiar blue dressing gown —and one wearing impeccable black Italian leather shoes, dark trousers, and a pointed umbrella resting next to him.

“Hello, John. It’s nice of you to join us this morning. Would you care to come into the other room?” Mycroft smiled down, feigning politeness.

“Mycroft was just leaving,” said Sherlock firmly.

“Oh, no. I think I’d rather stay, brother dear. Especially now that I can see what you mean; very peculiar, this situation. I believe we should meditate on it further.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this story thinking it would be told in three parts, keeping it under 10K. It just proves that writing a story (no matter how well planned) isn't entirely in the author's control. But I've had a blast writing this so far! All of your comments have been so lovely, it keeps me motivated.

John drained his cup and put it into the sink, following Sherlock out of the kitchen and into the living room where Mycroft had just disappeared. “We need to talk about your turn of the century thumb jar sitting in the cupboard,” he muttered under his breath.

“Later,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, resting the umbrella against the frame in a sort of arrogant showmanship of domination.

John sat down in his plush armchair and Sherlock perched on the armrest, leaning back slightly and resting his hands along the back of the chair. John felt the sudden closeness of his best friend and knew he only needed to scoot back several centimetres in order to be tucked into the crook of Sherlock’s arm. He resisted the temptation.

“Sherlock, I think we’d like some tea,” Mycroft said pleasantly.

Sherlock gave a loud sigh of exasperation and rose once more to go into the kitchen. John could hear the kettle being switched on. He moved fully back into his chair.

They sat--John with his face carefully arranged--Mycroft with a mask of indifference, facing each other and listening to Sherlock slamming cupboards in the kitchen.

“Did you see the fog this morning, John? Quite peculiar for this time of year. I wouldn’t fancy walking out in that.”

“I find it rather stimulating, actually.”

“You must have had a great motivator.”

“I was just a bit hungry, I wanted something new.”

“My brother must be neglecting his duties of taking care of you.”

“Your brother has no such duties.”

“Well, voluntary duties, I suppose. Since you’ve been ill.” The kettle clicked in the kitchen.

“Who said anything about me being ill?”

“John,” Mycroft was trying hard not to smile. “I will not insult your intelligence by reminding you that nothing foregoes by surveillance.”

“Mycroft, I would never insult your intelligence by reminding you that my health is my business.”

“And Sherlock’s apparently, now,” Mycroft said with a slight tilt of his head. “Ah. Tea. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had walked back into the room. He handed his brother the cup. “I put extra sugar in it. And a dash of spice, so that it would taste like one of those cinnamon buns that you’re so fond of.”

Mycroft ignored his brother. Sherlock handed John his tea and resumed his place on the armrest of the chair. Now that John had moved, Sherlock’s arm casually rested against his back. He chose to ignore it, and so apparently did Sherlock. The doctor took the cup of hot liquid in his hands and paused before taking a sip, noticing that it wasn’t tea at all. It appeared to be just clear hot water. He quirked his head and looked up at Sherlock in an unspoken question.

Sherlock smiled down at him,--without answering-- and inclined his head toward the cup. John took a timid sip and realised that it was salt water. It tasted glorious.

Mycroft looked as though he was sitting in front of the telly, watching a highly amusing programme left on just for his benefit.

“I came here to talk about Franson,” said Mycroft. He put down his cup. “The man is going through trial right now. We have him held and we are attempting to procure any information from him about his drugs production as we can.”

“So, you’re torturing him for information,” John said.

“How barbaric of you, John. But yes, if that’s what you’d prefer to call it.”

John took another sip from his cup. It took every ounce of self-restraint to not gulp down the entire thing.

“I really don’t care about Franson or what he was doing. The point is, we caught him and handed him over to you and New Scotland Yard. Case closed,” Sherlock said determinedly.

“It’s not so simple, little brother.”

“Why else would he be our business now?” Sherlock retorted.

John knew the answer; he just didn’t want to believe it. To hear Mycroft confirm his worst fears aloud would mean that he would have to face the fact that this strange phenomenon happening to his body would be something that needed to be dealt with outright. As long as it went unspoken, he could ignore it.

“There is the matter of John,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stared at his older brother boldly, not saying anything and Mycroft stared evenly back. The two men seemed to be having an entire conversation without speaking a word.

John cleared his throat. “I’m absolutely fine,” he said defiantly.

“What’s in the cup of yours, John?” Mycroft asked.

The doctor sighed and decided to give in. “Okay, point taken. Lovely. Brilliant. Now we all know what a problem I have. I’m addicted to salt water and some bloody seaweed. Big deal.”

“John and I are capable of dealing with this. I don’t see why you need to be so meddlesome,” Sherlock asserted.

“I have plenty of experience dealing with addiction, if you need to be reminded Sherl—”

“Alright,” John raised his hand to shush Mycroft. “We don’t need to bring the past into this as well. Mycroft, I appreciate the sentiment, really, but I don’t need help.”

Mycroft cringed at the word ‘sentiment’.  “This is not about sentiment! It’s about a national secrecy and security!” he cried.

“Dear me, Mycroft. I certainly knew you were getting older, but not even I thought you were fully senile yet,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock,” his brother countered. “If you two would just listen for a moment, you’d know why I’m here.” He put a hand to his head and rubbed the temple there lightly. “We’ve been talking to Franson about what was in that drug, the one that was on the knife pressed to John’s throat. It doesn’t look good. There were all sorts of things in there that we can’t even begin to break down and analyse without months of research.”

“And you didn’t even think to text me—your brother—a graduate chemist!”

“I thought it would be best if you didn’t know, Sherlock. Sentiment always gets in the way of these things. You are emotionally involved.” Sherlock threw Mycroft a filthy look.

“What have you found?” John asked quietly.

Mycroft turned sympathetic, and looked at John, ignoring his brother completely. “Not much. You’re the only person that has endured the drug for this long. It doesn’t directly go into your bloodstream right away, so it makes sense that it never showed up in those tests. When Franson tested it on his own subjects, he only exposed the skin for less than thirty seconds. It produced an instant euphoria that lasted a couple of hours. No hallucinations, or anything too drastic. They described it as a ‘feeling of floating’ whatever that means.”

“And these subjects, they’d just come down from the high and go back to normal?” Sherlock asked.

“Essentially, yes,” Mycroft responded.

“But I never felt euphoric, I didn’t feel anything after that.” John absentmindedly traced the cut along the back of his neck with fingers. Sherlock’s hand closed around his and rested there at the base of the cut, stilling his fingers. John involuntarily shivered.

“Don’t touch it,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft pretended not to witness the moment. “I think we need to keep a close eye on John. The salt cravings are an indicator of the body lacking something essential to keep itself functioning. Until we figure out what that is, I think it’s best if you keep drinking it. What are the adverse effects of ignoring your cravings, John? Have you noticed anything?”

Sherlock was rubbing small circles with his thumb at the base of John’s neck. It was very comforting and John wanted to turn around and protest as Sherlock suddenly took his hand away.  Instead, John focused on answering Mycroft’s question.

“Erm.. well I suppose it starts with a temperature change. I either get really hot or really cold. The first night when we got back here, I was freezing. There was nothing I could do to get warm, until I finally fell asleep in bed.” He coloured slightly, remembering Sherlock’s arms around him that night. “And then, like this morning, all of the sudden my temperature rises and I begin to crave salt and seaweed. It’s the strangest thing. I know I sound like a lunatic.”

“It is peculiar, but I don’t think you’re a lunatic,” said Mycroft.

“And I don’t either,” Sherlock spoke up. “Whatever this is, we’re going to fix it.”

“So for now—until we have more research—we’ll just be careful.”

John nodded. “I’ll look through some of my old medical textbooks, do some of my own research as well. I have a few colleagues that I might be able to talk to.”

“Molly might be a good resource too,” Sherlock added.

“I think it best if we not mention this to too many people,” Mycroft pointed out. “I don’t want this getting around. We are trying our hardest to not reveal this drug to the public, for fear of demand. Molly is entirely trustworthy of course.”

“I understand,” John said. “We’ll just talk to Molly.”

They sat in silence for a couple of moments, each one lost in his thoughts.

Sherlock broke the silence. “Well, there’s nothing else to talk about, Mycroft. Please get out.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I would like to say that the capacity of your rudeness astounds me, but it does not.” He rose and picked up his umbrella. “John, a word in the hallway?”

Sherlock sighed loudly and John could practically feel the eye roll without looking at his face.

John closed the door to 221B and looked across at Mycroft in the dark hallway, waiting for him to start talking.

“As you know, John, my brother is not the type to make friends easily.”

“Mycroft,” John sighed. “I have the feeling that we’ve had this conversation at least ten times before.”

“Yes, alright. I know this is old news.”

“Good.”

“Right. John. I hope you don’t mind if I speak frankly here.”

“By all means,” John said. Hesitation was creeping upon him gradually.

“What is the cliché phrase? The obligatory motto of every best friend, mother, sister, father and brother throughout the history of time?”

“I dunno, you tell me.” John humoured him.

“You break his heart, and I’ll break you. Or rather—in this case—I’ll hire someone to. Good day, John. I do sincerely hope you feel better. I’ll be in touch.”

Mycroft trotted down the stairs leaving a bewildered John frowning in his wake.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short fluffy chapter to hold you over until the big plot change. :) Enjoy!

Sherlock had changed out of his dressing gown and into his favourite plum shirt and black trousers. He had reclaimed his place in his chair and was languidly stretched out like a cat, one foot draped over the armrest and his torso turned to the side. John sat down across from him.

“ That was rather quick. Did he threaten you? Or offer a bargain? I swear, if he offers you money to spy again…”

“He did none of those things. Don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin and narrowed his eyes at John.

“I would have come with you this morning.”

“I got what I needed.”

“Yes, I saw all that mess in our kitchen.”

“You want to talk to me about mess, Sherlock? What about the thumbs? And the acid next to the spices?”

“Arbitrary topic, pick a new one.”

“Right. I’m going to work on my blog.” John stood up and reached around Sherlock to pick his laptop up off the desk.

 

* * *

 

They spent the morning like that; Sherlock reclining in his chair, no doubt sorting through his mind palace, and John tapping away gently on his keyboard. It was a peaceful morning despite how John had woken up and Mycroft’s unannounced visit. Everything nearly felt normal, or as normal as it could possibly be at 221B.

When he came to a lull in his writing, John got up and turned on the telly to a random channel for some background noise to distract him while he thought out his next few paragraphs before he actually wrote them. 

It happened to be HBO, and an American romantic comedy with semi-recognisable actors was playing. It was really quite good, and John found himself thinking less about his blog and more about the film. He spent nearly an hour absorbed, and he began to root for the protagonist. In the ending scene, the main character was badly injured. As he laid in bed, his love interest walked into the room with a hurt expression on her face. Their dialogue rang clear through the quiet living room of 221B.

“Does it hurt a lot?” The young woman on the screen was gesturing to the protagonist’s cut arm, as she moved closer to him.

“Not too much. It’ll be okay.” He smiled at her.

She picked up his palm and brought it to her lips. “I’m going to kiss it better. Make it heal—”

“Rubbish!” Sherlock cut through the dialogue, sitting up in his chair and staring at the telly with a frown.

John glanced across to his best friend. He hadn’t realised he wasn’t the only one completely absorbed in the story. “What, you don’t like it?”

“Kissing someone’s wound does not make it better. Where’s the sense in that? The scientific proof? ”

 John tried his hardest not to laugh. “It’s not scientific, Sherlock. It’s just a sign of affection. It’s empathy. It shows how much the character cares for the other.”

“It’s rubbish. It’s distracting me from my mind palace.” Sherlock turned away from the telly with a huff.

“Alright, alright. I’m turning it off. Calm your bloody horses.”

* * *

 

 

Morning turned to afternoon and the hazy apricot-coloured light filtered into the room. John continued his blog post, the inspiration flowing freely. It was a rare occurrence when he could work without being too distracted.  

It had been a couple of hours since he’d last had anything to drink, and John’s temperature was steadily rising. He put his laptop down on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen, grabbing his mug from earlier and giving it a rinse in the sink. He reached for the salt jar as he heard Sherlock walk into the kitchen behind him.

Sherlock came up and stood very close to him. John turned his head slightly to the left so that he could see him out of the corner of his eye. Timid fingers reached up to John’s nape and rested there lightly on the bare skin. John froze turning his head back and focused on pouring more salt into his mug. His hands seemed to quit working. John was _burning_.

He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body behind him—the softness of his fingers resting at his nape. His best friend’s breath ghosted across his cheek and John closed his eyes involuntarily. He leaned into the touch and stretched his head to the right so his bare neck was more exposed, Sherlock’s fingers becoming heavier and surer of their place.

“I’m going to make it better.” Sherlock whispered.

Soft lips were pressed to the base of his neck where John’s cut had ended. Sherlock placed his right hand lightly on John’s hip to steady him. John gasped softly and leaned back so that he was fully pressed against Sherlock. Small delicate kisses followed the cut’s path, winding nearly up to his ear slowly and thoughtfully. John could feel the soft brush of Sherlock’s curls against his skin. He wanted to turn around, bury his hands into those luscious locks, and snog his flatmate senseless.

But suddenly, it all stopped as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock broke the contact after one last lingering kiss at the end of the cut right behind John’s ear. “I have to go see Lestrade,” Sherlock’s honeyed voice said low in his ear, taking his hand away from John's hip. “I’ll be gone a couple of hours.” He stepped back away from John.

“I’ll come with you.” John was embarrassed to find his voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and turned around to face him. The colour was high on Sherlock’s cheeks and he looked to be slightly out of breath. John’s eyes lowered and stared at his lips as he talked.

“It’s only a few hours. It’s not for a new case. I just need to identify three of the suspects. Franson’s men. The ones that grabbed you.”

John’s eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s. “I can help then.”

“You were knocked out the entire time. You never even got a good look at them. I swear I’ll be back soon. Stay here and rest." He said more gently. "Your temperature is insanely warm. Aren’t you going to drink that?” Sherlock gestured to the cup in John’s hand.

John looked down at the full cup of salt water that he was gripping tightly and couldn’t remember how he managed to pour it.

Sherlock smirked and threw on his Belstaff. “Text me if you need me,” he said, before closing the door behind him.

John went upstairs to his bedroom in a haze wondering what the hell had just happened. As soon as Sherlock got home, they were going to need to talk.


	8. Chapter 8

John called the surgery and talked to Sarah, apologising that he couldn’t come in for the next few days. He lied—John hated lying—and said that he was very ill, coming down with the flu. He wasn’t far off with the bit about having a fever, he supposed.

After he got off the phone, John stood in the middle of his bedroom staring off into space. Sherlock had just kissed him. A tender kiss, full of unspoken emotion, then just up and left. Only Sherlock could pull it off so causally. John didn’t know how he was going to approach his friend. Would he just confess that he returned Sherlock’s sentiments? Did Sherlock even have sentiments? John frowned. Of course he did. The problem was, John had no idea what went through that mad, brilliant mind of his.

John had come to terms with his feelings for his best friend some time ago, and stifled them as deep down under the surface as he could. It was better to have a simple platonic relationship with a complicated man, rather than involving romantic intentions as well—making it all messy and possibly ruining the whole thing in the process. Besides, John never thought Sherlock could reciprocate, but now he was learning that it was entirely possible that he had been wrong.

While he stood in the centre of the room, John lost all sense of time as he thought.

He came back to the present when his breath hitched in his chest. At first, he believed it was because he was— _yet again!—_ replaying the kitchen scene over in his mind. But as he tried to calm himself, his breathing became more laboured and the cut at the back of his neck started to burn. John felt numb all over. _Okay_ , he thought, _remain calm_. Call Sherlock? No, he didn't want to worry him any more than he already was. He thought about calling Mycroft but didn’t want to be put under 24 –hour surveillance—although he probably already was—but sod it, he wasn't going to ask the git for anything. Even in the direst of circumstances, John’s own stubbornness surprised him.

John ran downstairs to get salt water. Something odd was happening to his legs, and his temperature was yet again rising. He drank down three cups of the water but it wasn’t doing anything. He swatted at the back of his neck. The cut itched and stung. The doctor was gasping for breath; his vision was going blurry. He needed to cool down. He needed water—more water. John grabbed the salt jar and ran for the bathroom, stripping his clothes off in a trail as he went in a frantic frenzy toward the bath. By the time he got to the bathroom door, he was only in his pants. It was so bloody hot that he thought he would explode.

He turned on the tap and cool water came rushing into the basin of the tub. John got on his knees and stuck his head under the faucet. The cool water hitting the back of his neck and the cut made him feel better, but it still wasn’t quite right. He had the urge to drink all of the water. He unscrewed the cap from the salt jar so that he could fill the remainder of it to drink out of, but it slipped out of his shaking hands and fell into the tub. Air bubbles rose up to the surface and salt poured into the bottom of the bath.

Like a madman and with his breathing still wretched, John reached into the water that was now collecting rather fast in the tub and tried to scoop up the fully saturated salt before it dissolved completely. It slipped through his fingers and danced in the water as though it were mocking him, disappearing from his sight.

He growled in frustration, took the rest of his clothes off, and lowered himself into the bath, bringing cupfuls of water to his mouth to drink it with his hands. The bath was threatening to overflow and he turned off the tap when the water reached his shoulders.

Sheer relief hit John as suddenly as the whole thing started. He felt his temperature drop, his breathing normalised. He rationalised that the water was probably freezing, but he simply couldn’t feel it. He let out a huge breath and leaned his head against the tile and closed his eyes. Concentrating on deep breaths John shifted his body slightly in the water and paused. Something didn’t feel right; he couldn’t quite move his legs. He opened his eyes and sat up looking down at himself.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had lied to John—lying was usually no problem—but in this case, it made him feel uneasy because it was John that he had done the lying to. He had already identified the suspects for Lestrade earlier that day by text. Lestrade had sent him the pictures and it took exactly ten seconds to figure it out.

He was going to see Molly for advice. About John.

As Sherlock neared St. Bart’s he began to feel unsure of himself which was a very novel feeling indeed. He never asked for Molly’s help—he wasn’t sure exactly how she’d take it. It was a rather humbling experience but it was for John, so the matter was already settled before it had begun. During his walk he’d thought more about what he’d done. It was stupid and irrational of him to display his emotions so openly like he had. Although John was different, Sherlock had to draw the line somewhere, for god’s sake. And undoubtedly, John was going to force it up in conversation later when he got back.

He found molly covered in blood and handling a dead person’s spleen when he walked into the morgue. She was concentrating very hard on the task in front of her, bent over the corpse in full absorption.

“Hello, Molly,” said Sherlock, his baritone voice echoing off the walls of the sterile room around them.

She jumped back in surprise. “Sherlock!” She smiled at him. “I haven’t seen you around for a while. Where’s John?”

“John is at home, at the present moment. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about that. Do you have a free moment?”

Molly looked down at the corpse. “Well, he isn’t going anywhere, so I suppose I do. Wait for me while I get changed.”

Ten minutes later she met Sherlock back in the lab with a fresh lab coat thrown on. Sherlock noticed that she had run a comb through her hair and clipped it back into place. By looking at her, there was no way to tell what she had been doing only a few minutes pervious.

“So, how’s John?” Molly pulled out two stools and gestured for Sherlock to sit with her.

Sherlock sat down heavily. “Not so great, actually.”

Molly’s features crumpled. Her eyebrows furrowed and the small corners of her mouth turned down. “I do like him terribly much; I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“He’s struggling. We had an incident busting a drug’s syndicate.”

“I’ve heard a few things from Lestrade but not much," she offered. 

Sherlock proceeded to recollect every event from the past few days with meticulous detail. He didn’t want to leave anything out in fear of missing some tiny important aspect that perhaps actually had monumental consequences.

As Sherlock told his story, her face became darker and darker. She chewed her nails lightly as she was listening. When he finished, she looked at Sherlock and said, “Well, why hasn’t anything been done about this? He’s a doctor. John of all people should know that he needs help.”

“Well, you know, John is very stubborn.”

“Perhaps with you.”

“I guess that makes me special,” said Sherlock dryly.

“I have to admit, the salt craving are especially strange. But what I want to know is what other tests have been tried on him. Any skin or urine samples? A retest to try the bloodstream once more?”

“That’s why I’ve come to you. I need your help, Molly.”

Molly blanched at that. “I—I don’t know if I could really be all that much help.”

“I believe you could. You see, my brother insists on keeping this entire thing under the table, which just adds to John’s unending repertoire of excuses of why he shouldn’t be getting professional help. If word gets out about John’s symptoms being related to this new drug, the results could snowball.”

Molly frowned. “I still don’t see why he can’t get professional help. That seems like a weak argument on Mycroft’s part.”

“And yet, John isn’t resisting it. We just need some basic tests run here, in a lab. Things are still under our control, at least for the present moment.”

“I’m not so sure—”

“Molly, please. I need your help.” Sherlock was insistent. “I can do most of the testing, but I need someone who knows the human body just as well as I do to help me do this.”

“Well… alright,” Molly said awkwardly, shifting her weight on the stool. “But only this once Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood up. “Right. Thank you. So, let’s go to Baker Street. I don’t think it’s good for him to leave our flat just yet.”

Molly blushed again. “You want me to come to your flat? Right now?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“Well, I need to finish up here first.”

“How long will that take?” he asked impatiently.

“Maybe a half hour. Less than that.”

“I need to get home. You know the flat number. Come as quickly as you can.”

Molly nodded and stared after Sherlock as he left the lab.

 

* * *

 

John stared down at his legs—or rather, where his legs should have been. Instead, he was looking at a long tail that stretched out and ended with a fin. Nearly to his waist he was covered in electric blue scales that shimmered slightly green and gold in the water. He sat there stunned and tried to move, his tail flipping up out of the water and coming back down with a smack to the porcelain basin of the bath.

John realised that he was hallucinating; it was the only thing that made sense. The drug had finally kicked in and it was going in full force now.

He ran his hand along his waistline where skin met scales and laughed at how absurd his imagination could be. He paused, frowning at how realistic the scales felt under his skin—soft to the touch—almost like the feathers of a bird’s wing, rather than the sliminess of a fish’s scales. Things were coming into focus and John was puzzled. If it was a hallucination, then he supposed he should still be able to feel his legs, despite what he was seeing. John had never hallucinated before, he wasn’t certain on how long the illusion would last or what it was supposed to feel like. _Bloody convincing_ , he thought.

He heard the front door open. Sherlock had gotten back and John cursed silently. In his panicked frenzy, he hadn’t closed the door to the bathroom. Quickly, he drew the shower curtain around the bath, obscuring himself from open view.

“John?” Sherlock’s curious voice rang out over the flat.

“Yeah, I’m just in here.” John called from the bathroom. He panicked as he heard Sherlock’s footsteps come closer.

 “Why are all your clothes spread out?” called out Sherlock from the other room.

“I just fancied a quick bath, is all. Don’t come in, Sherlock.” John was angry with himself for how much his voice wavered.

“What are you hiding, John?” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly very close. He was in the doorway.

“Nothing. I’m almost done, please leave me alone.” John could see Sherlock’s silhouette standing right next to the bath. Only a thin sheet of plastic remained between them.

“I can deduce what happened you know.”

“I don’t need your deductions right, now Sherlock.”

“I can’t help what I see.”

 John sighed, loud enough for Sherlock to hear him, and his heart pounded in his chest. The hallucination wasn’t going away. His tail still shimmered green, gold, and blue under the water.

“You were feverish. That’s why your clothes are all over our flat.”

 “Not the most difficult of deductions, Sherlock.”

 “How are you now?” Sherlock asked softly. John saw his silhouette lower a bit unsteadily toward him.

“Fine!” squeaked John. “ I was hallucinating earlier but now—probably just from the fever—I’m absolutely fine. No need to—”

 Sherlock yanked the curtain back and John froze. Sherlock’s eyes moved to look at the water and he fell onto his knees next to the bath and gasped. Their eyes met and John gaped at him, still frozen and not quite knowing what to say.

“Oh, well. Perhaps I’m not hallucinating,” he said weakly.

 


	9. Chapter 9

      Sherlock leaned on his knees next to the bath, staring at John. John had never seen his best friend at a loss for words before, but it was making the situation tenser by the second.

    “Um..John?” Sherlock whispered. 

    “I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know!” replied John to the unspoken question. He sat up further and the sudden sound of water sloshing against the side made Sherlock flinch. The doctor ran a wet hand through his hair and began to hyperventilate.

    “John!” Sherlock reached out and grasped John’s upper arm. “Don’t panic. We can deal with this.”

    It took John several moments to calm down. Sherlock's hand remained around John's upper arm, rubbing small comforting circles with this thumb. 

    John shook his head and swallowed thickly. His voice came out in a rasp. “I think I’m dreaming. Or it’s something in the water and we’re both drugged.” 

    Sherlock moved his hand from John’s arm and sought his hand instead. He picked up his fingers and intertwined them with his. “No, John. It was Franson’s drug. How many times have I told you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,  _however improbable_ , must be the truth.”

    “So what? I’m just supposed to accept the fact that I’m going to be a bloody fish for the rest of my life?” John cried.

    “No,” said Sherlock. “We’re going to fix this.”

    “How do we fix this, hmm? I don’t think this is something we can just find a solution for!” He smacked his fin in anger. Displaced water shot out, splashing the two of them thoroughly. Sherlock furrowed his brow at John and stayed where he was with droplets of salt water running down his dark curls and onto his forehead. He wiped them hastily away with the back of his sleeve.

    John looked down at his tail. “I didn’t mean to do that—sorry—I didn’t know that I could.”

    “It feels so strange—”

    “It’s really quite beautiful—” They started at the same time.

    “What?” John looked up and sought his friend’s eyes.

    I said, it’s really quite beautiful. Look at the colours.”

     John didn’t say anything, but studied the glimmering colours in his tail. The soldier in John could endure many things--and he had-- with a brave front and a hard disposition. John thought of himself as brave, but if there was one thing that John hated above all else, it was being trapped.

    His mind was racing at what he should do next which began to make him hyperventilate again. _He was trapped in the sodding bathtub, of all places._

    “John—for the love of god—please try to calm down.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and it brought John back to the present. He closed his eyes. Sherlock moved his hand up into John’s hair and stroked the ash-blond fringe lightly, moving it back away from the doctor’s forehead. Sherlock marveled in how soft John's hair felt. 

    There was a knock on the front door and Sherlock’s hand froze in John’s hair. He curled his fingers, pulling lightly. John’s eyes snapped open. “Ow!” he protested.

    “Shhh,” said Sherlock, straightening up.  

    “Mrs Hudson?” John whispered.

    “No, Molly, I believe.”

    “What is she doing here?” John’s voice cut through the air between them.

    The knock on the door became more persistent. “Sherlock?” called Molly.

    John moved in the bath, causing his tail to splash again, with a loud thunk sound echoing in the basin.

    Sherlock widened his eyes at John in warning.

    “I’m sorry!” he threw up his hands, which caused more splashing noises. “I haven’t quite figured out how to control it. Don’t look at me like that.”

    “Sherlock, I hear you in there! Is that John too?" Molly's voiced carried through their flat through the front door. "If you don’t answer this door, I’m coming in. I walked all the way here in the rain on my afternoon off and I’m—”

      "Just a minute, Molly,” Sherlock called loudly. His voice echoed off the tiled walls.

                  Sherlock turned around and began to rummage in the cupboard under the sink for something. John heard the crinkle of plastic, the sound of bottles and paper and bath supplies being tossed around frantically. 

    “What are you doing?” John hissed. “Please tell me you locked the front door.”

    “No, I didn’t bloody lock the door, John,” Sherlock shot back. He straightened up with a jar of dried rose petals in his hand. “Here, use this to cover your tail.”

    “Why do we have dried flower petals?”

    If the situation weren’t so serious, John would have laughed at the thought of Sherlock taking a leisurely bath with little rosebuds floating around him.

    “It was for an experiment, now just do it.”

    But Molly had done her waiting. The front door opened and an angry Molly came storming in with a soaking black raincoat tucked in the crook of her arm and red wellies caked in mud and soot. “Honestly, Sherlock. I can’t believe that you have the audacity to ask me for help and then just ignore—”

    She saw John. In the bathtub with his hand full of rose petals posed above the water. John stared back at her and released the petals into the tub with a splash.

    “Right well, this is brilliant. Now the whole bloody world is going to know that I’m a fish.” He flicked his tail again, sending waves of water onto the tile. "Who likes to bath in flowers." 

    “John, stop doing that!” Sherlock cried out.

    Molly stared at the pair of them with her mouth in a perfect “O”. 

    “Sherlock, when you told me that John was sick—”

    “Oh, Christ,” yelled John. “Why, Sherlock?” He tilted his head up to Molly. “I was going to talk to you myself eventually,” he added kindly to her.

    Molly frowned. “This is way worse than I thought.”

    “Understatement of the century.”

    “Don’t be so dramatic, John.” Sherlock took a step closer to the bathtub.

    “Actually, this is quite interesting. Of course, I’ve heard stories, read them. There are some ancient mythological tales that talk about this sort of thing. But I’ve never actually seen it happen, of course." 

    John was amused by Molly's knowledge of mythology."You’re familiar with this situation?” he asked her.

    “In theory, yes. You’re turning into a merman, John. Of course, there has to be a scientific explanation. I reckon we'll figure it out.”

    “Oh, well. I guess I’ll just nip over to the ocean then. It’s been nice knowing all of you. Have nice lives.”

    “John, unless I am mistaken, it’s usually my role to be the dramatic one. Please do not deprave me of it by being so yourself, and pull yourself together.” The words came out of Sherlock’s mouth in a rush. “At least one of us needs to be the rational one in our relationship.”

    John’s stomach turned over at ‘relationship’. "I don't have to be bloody rational all of the time," he muttered. 

    “Right, so,” said Molly, giving a little cough. Her cheeks were flushed. “Of course John, we’ll have to erm… transport you. To the ocean, or some other large body of water, so that at least you be able to move.” 

    John’s tail gave another dejected slap in the water. Molly continued. “And I’m going to need some samples. A scale, if you’d let me. Some blood, and maybe a skin sample from your cut. That way we can figure out how to change this. I’m sure there’s something we can do.”

    John gave a tight nod. “So…” Molly tettered back and forth on her feet. “I brought my kit, if you’d allow me to—”

    “Let’s get on with it, Molly.” Sherlock began pacing in the small space.

     Molly went to get her things and came back into the room and proceeded to very carefully take samples from John. He stared, blank-faced at the tiled bathroom wall. She spoke to him as she worked. “Of course, we’ll keep this a secret. If we let this out, the drug could gain popularity, or media coverage. Or John, you could become a spectacle, which are all things that we absolutely do not want. I don’t think your life is in danger. Your vitals are all fine.”

    “Just my human life that’s in danger.” He added. He grimaced as she pulled out one of his scales near the end where his feet should have been.

    “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?” She held it up between a pair of tweezers. It glinted a navy blue like the sky right before dawn. Molly stood up and nodded at the two men.

    “We’re going to need Mycroft’s help, if we can get John to a pool or an ocean,” said Sherlock.

    “Stop talking like I’m not just sitting here. We don’t need Mycroft.” John protested.

    “He’s going to find out anyway. He’ll be able to help us transport you safely and securely.”

     John knew that Sherlock was right. With only the three of them it was going to be a struggle, but with Mycroft, they actually had a chance.

    Sherlock pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call my brother,” he announced. “Molly, would you like tea whilst we wait for him to get here?”

     Molly blanched at the sudden politeness. “Sure,” she said.

     Sherlock nodded. “John, we’ll be right back, I promise.”

     The two of them left the bathroom and John was left to his thoughts. _I am not in some fairy story, this cannot be happening._ The doctor drummed his fingers idly on the edge of the bathtub, willing himself to stay rational. Sherlock’s voice carried from the living room, talking in low tones over the phone with Mycroft. Molly called out to him. “I’ll be back soon, John! I just want to drop these at the lab and get them stored properly.” She held up his vial of blood and a few medical bags from the hallway, then tucked them away and walked out the front door. Sherlock was still on the phone.

    John began to wonder about the sea, and what would happen once they got him there. What about sharks and other predators? He would be completely vulnerable in the depths with no instinctual knowledge. John shivered at the thought.

     But in fact, John noticed that he was still shivering. Was the water turning cold, or was it just him that was starting to notice its temperature? He began to feel the chilled water lap at his backside and lick around his torso. Gooseflesh stood out on his arms. His fingers were getting numb, and so were his toes— _wait._ John looked down. His tail was starting to disappear, the scales unravelling and melting down. His legs became unstuck and he began to wiggle his toes.


	10. Chapter 10

It only took a few seconds for the scales to go away completely.

John shot up out of the water and wrapped Sherlock’s towel around his waist, before grabbing his own and rubbing down his hair and shoulders to try and get warm. He walked out into the living room with the intention of asking Sherlock to start a fire for more warmth.

Sherlock had just gotten off the phone with Mycroft and he was setting his mobile down on his desk. John stood in the doorway and Sherlock’s eyes travelled down to John’s feet. John gave him a grin. “Perhaps it’s only temporary. Or maybe it only happens sometimes.”

Sherlock walked over to him in a flash, bending down slightly to search John’s eyes before pulling the shorter man to him. “Thank god,” he said.

John was covered in gooseflesh and still shivering. Sherlock pulled away from him and took the towel that John had around his neck and wrapped it around his best friend fully, drawing him back to his torso. John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest as the detective rubbed his shoulders with the towel in an attempt to keep him warm.

“You don’t have to,” John protested, “I’m getting that elegant shirt of yours all wet.”

“I don’t care.” He whipped the towel around efficiently and covered John’s head, affectionately shimmying it across John's scalp in an effort to get his hair dry.

“Oi, Sherlock! I’m not a dog! Let me go, so I can get some clothes.”

John escaped from Sherlock and ran up the stairs into his bedroom. He grabbed pyjama bottoms and a soft, long-sleeved black and white striped jumper. After tugging it over his head, he went back downstairs to make a cup of tea. Although salt water was tempting, it didn’t quite hold as much appeal as it did earlier. Still, he made a mental note to run to Tesco to get another jar.

Sherlock stood with his arms crossed frowning in the kitchen, leaning against the table. He looked up when John came in and walked over to him.

After the whole 'turning-into-a-merman' incident, John hadn’t thought about the kiss in the kitchen earlier before Sherlock had left. Now, the memory came rushing back to him. The colour on John’s cheeks rose.

Sherlock reached out to John and put his hand on the back of his neck, wrapping his other arm around John’s waist. “Okay?” he murmured quietly.

John looked up into Sherlock’s pale eyes and nodded—he didn’t dare himself to speak.

“I—this is all so strange John. I’m just relieved you’re okay, and if it happens again we can be more prepared for it. Mycroft is going to help, and I think Molly has a good chance of figuring it out and I’m going to go to the lab first thi—”

“Shhh,” said John softly, reaching a hand up to run it through Sherlock’s curls. “You darling person, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sherlock leaned into John’s touch and John brought his palm down to the detective’s cheek. Sherlock leaned into it and turned his face slightly, bringing his lips to kiss the inside of John’s palm at the base of his wrist.

“I saw the light go out of your eyes, right before he threw you into the Thames." John realised that Sherlock was talking about Franson.  "I suppose it takes something like that to happen to realise how you feel about someone,” Sherlock said quietly. “I mean—that is to say—I’ve always had feelings for you, John. I think even since that first night after you shot the cabbie. But I’ve never acted on it because I was too afraid. And now I think you’re the only true thing in my life that is worth anything at all.”

John closed his eyes and leaned his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, burying his nose and breathing in his scent. He smelled like pine and spearmint and warmth. His head fit perfectly at Sherlock’s collarbone, as if it were intended for a John-sized person to rest their head there.

John didn’t know what to say to Sherlock’s declaration, so instead he stood on his toes and reached up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. He surprised himself at his own boldness. As he began to pull away, Sherlock held onto him tighter and John felt reaffirmed that he had made the right decision. Sherlock moved his lips from John’s only to trail a line of light kisses that led around John’s jawline.

John threaded his hands more firmly in Sherlock’s hair, carding through the soft curls lightly. John let out a faint moan and he could feel his cheeks grow instantly hot at his unintentional outburst. He felt Sherlock hesitate as the detective’s hands worked their way up from John’s waist to frame his face between his hands. He drew back slightly studied him.

“You’re growing your hair longer,” Sherlock

John sought Sherlock’s lips with his own again and drew him into a light, chaste kiss. “Wanted to try something new,” he said around the kiss. “Do you like it?” He pulled away again and looked up at him from beneath his lashes, giving him a small smile.  

“It suits you very much. I love it.”

“Well, isn’t this heart warming?” said a voice from the doorway.

Sherlock and John broke apart very quickly. Mycroft stood in the doorway, his gaze slightly smug and directed at Sherlock. “I’m sorry to spoil the happy moment, but John, my brother informed me of a rather serious and fantastical situation. I see now that perhaps it was for his own amusement, seeing as you’re standing on your own two feet with neither scales nor tail to speak of. ”

John collected himself and opened his mouth to protest. Sherlock placed a hand at the small of his back. John began to respond but before he could there was a light, brisk knock on the door and Molly walked into the room. She had changed into all black clothing with a plastic bag at her side that appeared to be stuffed with black wool.

She held it up and spoke to Mycroft. “I brought masks, in case we need to be as inconspicuous as possible when we move John. I'm not sure how much the CCTV cameras can pick up. ”

“There’s no need for all of that,” said John, bringing her attention to him.

She started when she saw him standing in the living room. “John! Your legs are back!”

John grinned. “It looks like it.”

Mycroft’s expression was darkening by the second. “Is this some kind of practical joke?” he spat. 

“Oh, please,” said Sherlock. “Do you really think I would call you for help unless it was absolutely necessary? Only a few moments ago, John was lying in the bath with a giant fin!”

John cringed. “Yes, alright. Everyone knows now, ta very much. No need to go announcing it to the world.”

“Yoo hoo,” called Mrs Hudson, stepping through the front door that Molly had left open. “I brought a plate of biscuits up. I thought you boys could use some—” She paused when she saw everyone standing in the living room.

“Oh Christ,” muttered John.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quickly, setting the plate down. "If it's about those--"

“It's nothing, Mrs Hudson,” said Mycroft indulgently. “We’re just having a little chat. About Sherlock’s lying habits.”

“Oh, stop it with the façade, Mycroft. She’s bound to find out anyway,” snapped Sherlock. "And you perfectly well know that I'm not lying. I sent you a picture!" 

"Jesus Sherlock! What have I told you about privacy?" said John. Sherlock ignored his gaze. 

“Find out what? What isn’t that you’re not telling me?” Mrs Hudson’s voice started to rise.

“John is turning into merman,” Sherlock said abruptly.

Mycroft’s eyes went to the celling in silence. Mrs Hudson let out a full laugh that ran throughout the flat. “Oh, Sherlock. Don’t tease me.” She continued to giggle.  

Everyone else stared back at her, waiting for her laughter to slowly fade to a frown. She faced them. “What? You can’t be serious.”

John cleared his throat. “Actually, we are.”

“But that’s just ridiculous. It’s utter nonsense.”

John reached over to her and lightly placed his hand on her arm. “Perhaps you should sit down, Mrs Hudson.”

John—with help from Sherlock—relayed the events of the past few days. Mrs Hudson—and consequently Mycroft—sat and calmly listened to their story with amusement dancing in her eyes.

“I still can’t see it. Actually, unless I do see it, I can’t fully believe what you’re telling me.”

John sighed, shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be sure to call you over if it happens again.”

That seemed to satisfy Mrs Hudson. John had no intention of letting Mrs Hudson see him half naked in a bath with a fin. 

John turned to everyone else in the group. “Listen, I’m okay now. Whatever it was passed. And I know you’re going to run tests in the lab, and that’s all I can hope for right now. This is bizarre, and I still think that I’m going to wake up from this nightmare and laugh at myself. So can we please just take it one thing at a time?”

Molly avoided eye contact. Mycoft was already pulling out his phone, and Sherlock came over to perch on the armrest of John’s chair--a new habit--John noticed. 

“Just out of curiosity, where were the three of you planning on taking me?”

“My private pool of course,” said Mycroft. “Until we could get you to Sussex. That is, if you are telling the truth.”

“Sussex?” echoed John. “Why there?”

“Somewhere peaceful, where we could be by the sea,” said Sherlock.

John’s heart did a little turn in his chest when he heard Sherlock use the word ‘we’. “You don’t have to follow me,” he said. 

“Of course I will follow you.” Sherlock tilted his head and frowned lightly. John reached out to take his hand and squeezed it lightly.

“So,” John said, standing up to face everyone in the room. “I’ll call you all if it happens again. We can be more prepared. In the meantime, I’ll lay low.”

“That’s a good plan, John,” Mycroft reaffirmed. He walked to the door. “I would appreciate it if you would call me right away. In this case, I think that seeing is believing. Good day Mrs Hudson, I hope you are intelligent enough not to relay the information you’ve just heard to anyone else. You know the consequences.” His voice had taken a lower tone. John secretly liked to call it his ‘British Government’ voice. “Molly.” He gave a slight nod before leaving.

Molly picked up her coat and walked quickly after him, saying a fast goodbye.

Mrs Hudson watched the two of them leave. “Well I never,” she said. “The nerve of your brother, Sherlock.” She shook her head and stood up uncertainly. “You boys and your adventures, I never know what I’m going to hear next. John, look after yourself, for heaven’s sake.”

She walked out of the room. John and Sherlock could hear her slowly going down the stairs to her flat.

John eased himself into his chair. “You can’t blame her. If someone had sat me down and told me all of that, I would have thought they were completely mad too.” Sherlock didn’t say anything; instead he began to pace in front of John. “I’m going to stay in the flat even though it kills me to do so,” said John.

“Good,” Sherlock stopped pacing just for a moment. “I want to murder him.” He turned swiftly on his heel and paced in the opposite direction.

“Who? Franson or your brother?”

“Franson at the moment.”

“Hang on,” John’s lips curled into a small smile. “It’s not all that bad. At least now I’ll be an excellent swimmer. I can out swim you in any race. Or if we’re going to be chasing any sea criminals, I can take care of that too,” he tried to joke.

Sherlock didn’t laugh. “It’s not funny, John.”

“Yes, alright. I know. Just trying to diffuse the situation. Will you stop pacing and come over here?”

The detective abruptly stopped and looked at John. John held his hand out to him. “Come over here,” he repeated more softly from his chair.

Sherlock came and stood in front of John, taking his hand. His eyes shifted downward, avoiding John’s completely. He stood—uncertain—feeling the surface of John’s skin, which was surprisingly soft and warm.

“Sit with me.”

Taking sudden courage, Sherlock attempted to sit on the side of the chair with John, but failed spectacularly and ended up falling halfway onto John’s lap and halfway onto the floor. It was a tangle of limbs and John found the wind knocked out of him at the sudden weight.

Sherlock scrambled up out of the chair and away from John. “Sorry! I’m sorry,” he said. Even his ears were turning pink.

John laughed. “You can sit on my lap, just give me a bit of warning. C’mon, let’s try that again.”

Sherlock took a hesitant step back to John. “That’s it,” he said, and reached out to pull Sherlock onto his lap. John wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist and held him.

Sherlock sat rigidly, unsure of what to do next. “Relax,” said John in his ear. The detective began to fidget and he shifted halfway off of John’s lap. The position was rather cramped and uncomfortable. “Couch?” he asked.

They both got up and John sat on the couch and Sherlock put his head in John’s lap. “Alright?” he asked.

“More than alright.” John smiled down at him. He turned on the telly and absentmindedly ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, not really thinking about the telly at all. John was thinking about what he would do if he turned into a merman and didn't turn back. What would happen if his legs completely disappeared for good? It was certainly no way to live. And then there was the matter of Sherlock. John’s heart ached at the thought of never being able to return to 221B and do exactly what they were doing at the moment—and with knowing that Sherlock felt the same way that John felt about him, it made it more difficult for John to imagine a life without his best friend.

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his lips. He uncurled the delicate long fingers and pressed a long kiss to the back of Sherlock’s knuckles. “I am so incredibly lucky,” John whispered to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They got takeaway for dinner, settling on Indian. John didn’t eat very much and scooted the food around his plate with his fork until Sherlock got up with a sigh and set a plate of nori in front of him--which John fervently devoured.

“Any new cases?”

“Lestrade hasn’t given me anything since I turned him down for the Kingston murders.”

“You must be dying to get out there and solve something.”

“John, don’t. I know what you’re doing.”

“It’s not healthy for you to stay in all the time, looking after me,” John insisted.

“This isn’t going to be ‘all the time’ as you put it. It’s only temporary until well... until we figure out how to solve this case.”

“This case?” John asked, picking up his cup of salt water and drinking a sip. He had run out earlier and bought three large jars from the Tesco Express around the corner.

“Yes, your case. We aren’t just sitting around. We’re solving your case.”

“So now I’m one of your clients?” John teased.

“Don’t be silly, John. You could never be a client.”

“Why’s that?” John said around a mouthful of curry. It was pretty good, he noted, the spiciness seemed to sit well with him. Perhaps it needed a bit more salt. He reached for the jar. 

Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s movement. “Well, for one thing, clients aren’t nearly as courageous or caring or as talented as you are.” John froze with his fingers curled around the salt. He felt Sherlock nudge his ankle with his bare foot under the table. “Or as beautiful,” he said more quietly.

“You say such lovely things,” said John. He swallowed a lump in his throat and stood up, coming to where Sherlock was seated at the table and planting a kiss in his curls. “You know it’s funny, all of this,” he gave a vague gesture between the two of them with a wave of his hand. “Nothing feels much different, but I feel fuller. Like something was missing before and now everything is okay... or it will be.” John turned his back to Sherlock and flipped on the kettle. “It can be…rather difficult for me. This sort of stuff,” said John, choosing his words carefully. “But my god, Sherlock. I will try my hardest for you. Anything for you.”

Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood next to John. The two men studied the steam rising from the kettle as it began to heat. “I know,” he murmured. “And neither am I. I find that words can never truly express exactly what I need them to, when it comes to you. But I know that I certainly need you. I need you because you’ve always been the one to tell me when something is a bit not good, or when I forget to sleep or eat or when I become too involved in a case. You’re always the one to pull me back when I get lost in my own head. I need you simply because you’re you, and you’re the only person who has stood out and so vehemently caught my attention, despite my best efforts to avoid such sentiments. You’re my conductor of light John, and without you, I—I just…”

John had never heard Sherlock falter at the end of a sentence. He reached up and kissed his detective fully, bringing his arms around Sherlock's shoulder blades.

John went to bed early that night. He stood in the doorway, with his toothbrush in his hand and watched Sherlock type rapidly at the computer. The light reflected on his skin made the glow from the computer cause Sherlock’s pallor to look eerily pale and ashen, even more so than normal. The detective was so involved with whatever he was writing; he didn’t even look up from his work. John strode over to the back of his chair and placed a kiss on the nape of his neck. Sherlock stopped typing and breathed in sharply.

“Are you planning on getting any sleep tonight?” asked John. Sherlock made a non-committal noise. “I’m going to bed. You can join me if you like.” John could feel the heat suddenly coming from Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Sherlock managed. His voice sounded thin.

John gave his shoulder a small squeeze and went upstairs. He didn’t know how long it took for Sherlock to finally join him. John drifted in and out of a fitful sleep full of twisting spires of seaweed in murky water reaching outward and upward like long tentacles of a jellyfish. John was tangled in the viscous threads and he couldn’t breathe but he could see the light coming from the surface of the water; bits of floating moss were filling drifting around him and filling up his lungs like wet wool.

He woke up to an empty bed in the dark, but something had startled him awake. He heard faint footsteps on the stairs and saw Sherlock’s figure creep up next to him.

“It’s just me,” Sherlock whispered. He turned the covers back and got into bed next to John; his movements stiff and overly calculated.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You gave me a fright. I could have attacked you.”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Yes, but it’s all fine.”

Sherlock turned on his side to face John, who was lying on his back. He studied John’s profile—all soft edges and sharp angles and flat planes—in the soft lamplight coming through the curtains from the street below. “John?” he asked.

“I need to tell you something, but perhaps now is not a good time.”

John frowned in the dark. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. In fact, everything is fine actually it’s just that, um…”

John turned on his side to face Sherlock, his frown deepening. “What is it?”

Sherlock sucked in a huge breath. “I’ve never done this before,” he said in a rush.

John's sleepy mind was working to catch up to Sherlock's over alert one. “You mean you’ve never shared a bed with someone? What have we been doing the past couple of nights?” he asked. 

“That’s not what I mean," said Sherlock. " I mean intercourse.” John cringed at the use of the formal word. Sherlock continued. “I’ve had sex, John. But I’ve never been committed to anyone. And sex is horrible. I don’t know why anyone does it. The thought of having it with anyone else but you is intolerable.” 

“We certainly don’t have to have sex, right now Sherlock. For one thing, I'm exhausted. And I’m never going to push you into anything you don’t want. I am perfectly content with just how we’ve been.” John began to wonder about Sherlock’s past partners. He had never given any indication of having any sort of relationship—ever.

“No—I mean—I do want to. With you. It’s just that I don’t want this to be some casual thing, like when you take women out on dates and bring them back here sometimes. I can’t operate that way; I need to have an emotional connection, a strong one.”

John reached out to him and sought Sherlock’s fingers with his own. “Has anything in our relationship ever been just casual? Sherlock, I am committed to you. I only want to be with you.”

“And I you,” said Sherlock, holding on to John’s hand tighter.

“Good. That’s settled then. We'll take this very, very slowly.” John smiled at him and Sherlock could see him faintly in the shadows, his hair ruffled from sleep and eyes partially closed, already halfway asleep again. Sherlock could only think of one word. _Endearing._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know very much about DNA testing, so sorry if I got that bit wrong. I'll ask you to kindly suspend disbelief if it seems off.

John woke at three am with a fever. Instead of feeling panicked, he was more exasperated than anything else. _Here we go again_ , he thought.

He tumbled out of bed, with Sherlock making a small sound of protest in his sleep at the loss of John’s arms around him. Deciding not to turn on any lights for fear of waking Sherlock, John fumbled through the dark to the kitchen and got a glass of salt water.

He stared out the window looking out at the night sky and seeing the pale moonlight low on the horizon. His throat was parched and the salt water wasn’t doing anything.

John drew a cold bath, cringing at how loud the sound of the tap was. Surely it would wake Sherlock. After dumping in half of a container of Tesco’s salt, John lowered himself into the water.

Sure enough, John’s fever subsided. John watched in amazement as his legs were quickly covering themselves in scales, inching up to his waist. The transformation took less than a minute. The fin looked deep indigo in the low light.

This time, John was more prepared. He wished that he could have more room to move around; the sides of the bathtub felt so confining. He thought about calling out for Sherlock, but he was determined to wait this one out on his own. Surely his legs would come back, just like they had before.

John closed his eyes and leaned against the tiles, thinking about how much he’d like to be swimming around. When he returned to his thoughts about the sea, it didn’t sound so daunting as it had earlier. He would welcome the freedom and the movement gladly at the moment. John’s thoughts sifted seamlessly from one to the next until they were a constant stream of shifting ideas that were out of his control. John began to dream of water. There was something about water that made a kind of stillness settle within John, like the comforting lull of an ocean wave. John dreamt of sea foam, of sand, of salt, and of crimson coral reefs with uneven branches weaving through the water.

 The nape of his neck was soaked, the moisture creeping up into his hair and there was someone tugging at his hand.

“ _John!”_

“Mmph,” said John, slowly opening his eyes.

Sherlock’s wide irises met his, which was very jarring. The bathroom window with frosted glass set high above them was leaking with dawn’s early light. John blinked slowly--taking in the halo of light--illuminating Sherlock’s hair almost making it appear golden brown, rather than his usual chocolate colour.

“Your hair is the colour of baked bread,” said John, still half asleep.

Sherlock chuckled. “You certainly _are_ a romantic when you're sleepy, John.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

John opened his eyes fully and realised that he was completely naked. His tail had disappeared sometime in his sleep. His hands and feet were severely wrinkled from the overexposure to water.

John’s cheeks turned a deep maroon. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!” He reached out and pulled the shower curtain between them.

“Problem?” asked Sherlock, amusement dancing in his voice.

“Yes! You can’t just look at me whilst I’m naked!”

“I figured I’d see you naked sometime in the future. How was I to know when I expected you to have a fin?”

John was very, very glad that there was a curtain between them so that Sherlock could not see the colour of his face. “Could you please get out while I get dressed?” he asked.

When John came out of the bathroom he made a beeline for the kitchen to make tea, his embarrassment still nearly palpable on his face. He placed a mug of the amber liquid in front of Sherlock, overloaded with sugar. Sherlock looked up to him in surprise and wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck, tugging him down for a kiss. “I didn’t get to have a proper good morning,” he said, his voice silky. 

“Good morning,” John smiled around the kiss.

“So,” Sherlock began, pulling away, his voice taking a brisk tone. “I think we’ve got it partially figured out at this point.”

“How do you mean?” John took a seat in his chair.

Sherlock stood up and started walking around the room. “Well, it’s safe to say that whenever you turn feverish, you start to feel the effects taking place.”

“Right,” said John. “And then I feel as though I need to cool down, and that’s when I draw a bath and start to change.”

“How long do you think it lasts?” asked Sherlock.

“I dunno. The first time was probably an hour? Maybe an hour and a half at most. But I couldn’t tell you for certain about this morning because—as you know—I fell asleep in the bath.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I think we need to go see Molly.”

 

* * *

 

The morning light turned to a grey afternoon. The sky looked as if it threatened to burst at any time and John was hoping that it would. His favourite days were always the bleak rainy ones. He supposed it was due to his time in Afghanistan; days would pass where he would pine for just a cloud or drop of moisture. The sprawling desert of Afghanistan seemed endless and he wasn't certain if he'd ever be able to see London's cloudy sky again. He considered himself lucky to call London his home.

Sherlock walked with a long black umbrella between them. He had insisted upon bringing it with them because he was unsure of the effect water might have on John if he were to get wet. Would it perhaps trigger another episode? They weren't sure. 

“You look a bit like your brother, holding that thing,” said John, in an effort to deter Sherlock from brining it along with them. Sherlock didn’t fall for it.

“I’m still bringing it with us, John. I know what you’re trying to do.”

It was slightly disconcerting seeing it swing between them.

They arrived at St Bart’s in no time at all and found Molly studying something underneath a microscope, the two little round circles of light framing her eyes like an owl. She lifted her head as they walked in.

“Hello you two. John, it’s good to see you back on your feet,” she said, her voice raised in an unspoken question.

“Yeah, it seems to come and go in stages.”

Molly moved to pick up a black moleskine notebook with the creamy white pages halfway open, revealing a series of messy scrawls in black ink. “Well, that’s quite interesting.” She raised her notebook and wrote something down in it. “I was actually just doing a few studies and recording what I’ve found. The composition of the scale taken from you is quite interesting, actually.”

“Oh really?” John’s interest was piqued.

“Yes—you see—its DNA relates directly to a fish, but it isn’t wholly one.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously it’s not completely fish DNA, he’s a human!”

“That’s exactly what I was getting to. It’s something I’ve never seen before. Ever.” Her eyes shifted back and forth between the two men.

Sherlock sighed. “Were are the test results?”

Molly walked around the table to a bright red dossier sitting next to the microscope she had been studying. Wordlessly, she handed it to John.

John flipped through several pages of information. He had done DNA testing in the past and he recognised the familiar letter sequences neatly lined up with the lines and dashes. What he saw only confirmed what Molly had been trying to tell them all along. The data suggested that John was now displaying genes that were commonly found in fish.

John grimly handed his results over to Sherlock who was studying John’s reaction ruthlessly as he read through his file. Sherlock flicked through it—his eyes sweeping quickly across the pages.

“I can’t believe this is what we’re looking at. There must be some sort of mistake,” said John.

“No mistake, John. I have a feeling that if we were to retest, we’d get the same results. It’s gene splicing. For some reason, whatever was on that knife cut a gene from your DNA sequence and replaced it with something else.”

“So is there any way we can fix this? We can’t just undo what happened can we?”

“We don’t have the capability of gene splicing here," said Sherlock, running a hand through his curls. "Remember Baskerville? Bluebell, the rabbit? Its glowing skin was the result of gene splicing. We don’t use that sort of technology here."

“And besides,” added Molly, “it’s very dangerous to risk such a thing with a human subject. One wrong move and the results could kill you.”

“So I’m stuck as a fish.” John’s face grew hot. He began to pace around the room. “What did I do to deserve this?” He kicked one of the stools out of the way. The noise echoed in the small room, making Molly flinch.

“We’ll keep trying John. Until we find a solution,” said Sherlock, his eyes following John's back.

They left, leaving a worried looking Molly in their wake.

John was seething the entire taxi ride home. Sherlock decided he didn’t want to press the matter further, and the best thing to do at the moment was to leave him be.

* * *

 

John turned again that night. And in the morning too, before the lights had come up and it was so dark outside that he thought it was still the middle of the night. He didn’t like turning on the lights when he woke with a fever and felt the change stir within him. He’d rather not look at what was happening to his body. There was a comfort that came with the darkness with the only light being the faint street lamps from London, which provided him a guide through the hallway and to the bathroom. He squeezed his eyes shut in the bath and clenched his fists, slowly counting backward from ten. The feeling of the fin became less foreign after the first few days. He began to recognise his own limits and movements that came with his transformation. No matter how much he tried to deny or ignore what was happening to him, the wildness in John was coming through stronger and stronger each day. He began to want new things.

He became less obsessed with the thought of finding a cure and more of his thoughts were about focused on what it would feel like if he could actually just _move_. The bath felt like a small porcelain prison that demanded him to complete his ritual quietly, and then forget it had happened until the next change. It was always the same amount of time. Two and a half hours, after dinner and before dawn.

John Watson never did anything half-heartedly. If he was going to spend five hours a day as a merman, he decided he was going to accept and embrace this new side of himself as best he could. 

He didn’t want to worry Sherlock. The fact that the man hardly slept at all made it more difficult to hide his daily transformation. He knew that Sherlock knew the pattern after only several days. It became an unspoken arrangement—in the evenings, John would go into the bathroom. As soon as Sherlock heard the tap turn on, he brought his laptop in and sat on the floor next to the bath as John transformed.

Once, John forgot to put salt into the water. In his hasty retreat to the bath, he had left the jar of salt on the kitchen counter. As he lowered himself into the cool water, something wasn’t right. His temperature didn’t go down and his skin was turning the colour of overripe tomatoes. Gasping for breath, he tried to raise himself out of the water to run into the kitchen, but it was useless; he was already beginning to transform with the green and navy scales taking over his lower body, consuming him with a hunger.

Sherlock knew immediately what was wrong. He jumped up from the bathroom floor—nearly breaking his laptop in the process—and grabbed the jar from the kitchen. The detective dumped the salt into the water and John’s skin began to turn back to its normal colour.

“Thank you,” he managed.

Sherlock knelt down next to him. “From now on, we’re leaving it in here.” And he firmly placed the jar of salt on the counter next to the sink. 

Sometimes, Sherlock would pace in and out of the bathroom whilst John watched him warily. John had turned into a case that Sherlock could not solve and that was something that drove Sherlock absolutely mad. John knew that he was running through his mind palace, scouring every inch of the place to see if he could put together any clues or information that he knew about transformations.

“Oh! It’s like you’re a werewolf!” Sherlock abruptly said one night.

“I think I would need to turn into a wolf if that were true,” said John.

“Yes, but the two things are quite similar. You have a pattern when you change, and it’s always into the same creature. A hybrid of a human and an animal. Well—in this case—a human and a fish.”

“I suppose you’re right,” John answered thickly.

That night, Sherlock had lain next to John in bed. When John brought his lips to his, Sherlock’s eyes stayed wide open in the darkness and John knew that his detective was elsewhere, lost in his mind.

“Sherlock,” he asked softly, running a hand up into his hair. “Are you with me?”

Sherlock snapped back into the moment and wrapped his arms around John, moving a pillow out of the way so that he could be closer. Without answering, he kissed John’s neck, letting his tongue explore down to his collarbone. 

John closed his eyes and threaded his hands through Sherlock’s curls.

“You always taste like salt now,” Sherlock murmured. John could feel the vibration from his voice.

“Does that bother you?”

“On the contrary, I find that I rather enjoy it.”

John dissolved into giggles as Sherlock wrapped his hands around John’s torso. Sherlock was discovering that John could be very ticklish in the ribs and he trailed his fingers and lips lightly across the ridges of his sides causing John to become breathless.

 _I love you_ , John suddenly thought, the words popping into his head out of nowhere. But he didn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t quite find the courage to do so yet. John Watson lacking courage was a very rare thing indeed but he was finding that when it came to Sherlock, there were always surprises that he discovered about himself as well.

* * *

 

Two weeks had passed and they had heard nothing from Molly. At dawn, John rose with a fever and found that Sherlock was not in the bed with him any longer. He heard a violin coming from the living room—one of his favourite melodies—that rang clearly through the flat. It was a mellow piece, which soothed John’s nerves. He still couldn’t manage to get used to waking up with a fever so early.

John rushed into the living room and Sherlock finished the melody. John strode up to him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before he ran to the bath.

Sherlock had left a huge stack of books next to the bath, but John needed to draw the water right away so he ignored them in favour of salting the water before he transformed.

Sherlock brought in two cups of tea and settled himself on the floor next to John. After John transformed, he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to see him reading about werewolves. Every single book that the detective brought in was werewolf-related.

“Sherlock?” John leaned over the ridge of the bath to read over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Sherlock was fully engrossed in what he was reading.

“Last time I checked, I’m not a werewolf.”

“I know that, John.” Sherlock leaned his head back against the edge of the bath so that he was looking at John upside down, inviting a kiss in order to silence him. “You need a shave,” Sherlock said, as he pulled away and righted his head back to his book.

John self-consciously ran a hand across his chin. “Would you hand me my shaving kit? It’s in the mirror above the sink.”

Sherlock stood up without taking his eyes off the book or putting it down, and walked over to the cabinet, grabbing a razor and a tube of Boots shaving cream. He lowered the book and hesitated, still not handing John the razor. “Let me do it. You’ll cut yourself without a mirror in front of you.”

John’s first instinct was to resist the idea when he saw Sherlock’s timid expression. However, his heart melted as he studied his detective standing above him with the cream and razor held casually at his side. John noticed the way Sherlock’s hair was sticking up on end and there was an uncharacteristic puffiness around his eyes—he must have gotten up very early—and with a jolt, John knew that it was because of him. Sherlock had been awake and by John’s side every morning and evening for the past week. He had memorised his schedule so that John wouldn’t be alone, no matter what.

“Alright,” John said quietly.

Sherlock knelt down next to him and poured the shaving cream into his palm before taking John’s chin and pointing it upward lightly with his fingertips. He was gentle with his movements and they became deliberate and careful. The smell of peppermint filled the air between the two of them.

Neither of them spoke. Sherlock concentrated on his task and John’s eyes softened as Sherlock carefully ran the razor across John’s cheeks.

“I’ve never had anyone do this for me before,” John murmured. It was a strangely intimate act. 

“Don’t talk. I could cut you by accident,” said Sherlock. “I consider it a privilege,” he added, before brining the blade against John's skin once more. John smiled at Sherlock’s words. “Don’t smile, John! I don’t want to hurt you,” he argued, which caused John to grin even more broadly. Sherlock took the razor away in mock exasperation and soon the two of them were both giggling at each other.

 

* * *

 

John began to accompany Sherlock on small cases, as long as they didn’t stay out too late. He noticed that Sherlock became hyperaware of what time it was, and exactly when they needed to be back at the flat so that John could transform safely.

They had a rhythm that became comfortable as the two of them slipped into their new relationship easily. As far as John knew, only Mycroft was aware of the change. Lestrade, Molly, and everyone else at the yard had yet to find out, and they planned on keeping it that way for some time. Mrs Hudson—of course—already assumed.

But the easy routine that they had established didn’t last for too long. One afternoon they had just come back from a case. The two of them were slightly out of breath from running after a man with a gun who had taken a considerable amount of cash from one of the shops near Piccadilly Circus, giving the tourists quite a fright.

“So, John,” said Sherlock, throwing his coat casually onto the back of his chair as they entered the flat. “I think we need a holiday.”

John paused from untying his boots. “You don’t like holidays,” he said slowly. 

“Yes, well… that was before.” Sherlock shifted slightly and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Before what?”

“Before you.”

John began to smile. “So now that you have me, you want to take a holiday together?” 

“Yes, I’m beginning to see the appeal of them. And since we haven’t heard a word from Molly, I think we should get away for a while.”

The thought of spending time with Sherlock with no distractions sounded perfect to John. He had never imagined that he would be going on holiday with Sherlock; he was the last person that John thought would ever _want_ to take a holiday. “Have you ever been on holiday before?”

Sherlock snorted—rather unattractively—and said, “of course I have, John. We used to go to Scotland every summer when I was a child. Mycroft loved Edinburgh. Any place where they deep fry everything from Mars bars to chips cooked in animal fat was a sort of paradise for him.”

“That’s getting old, Sherlock,” John scoffed.

“What? It’s true!” Sherlock was adamant.

“Besides—Scotland every summer as a kid sounds great—but what about as an adult?”

“I’ve been to America a few times—and Paris on a case once. Spain, half of Eastern Europe… what are you insinuating John? I am well-travelled, you know!”

John shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, what about going somewhere for fun? Not for work or as a child. I’m just surprised that you asked me is all. It will be lovely just to relax a bit and get away from London—that is—if you do actually relax.”

“You know I love London. It’s not that I want to get away, it’s that I think it would be good for both of us to go to the beach.”

John sighed. There was the root of it. It was for John's benefit, so that he could experience something other than their bath when he changed. But the thought of going to the sea was exciting, and Sherlock knew John thought so too. “Where did you have in mind?” John asked.

“I was thinking about just staying in the country. Maybe Edinburgh?”

“Edinburgh is freezing this time of year. You wouldn't be able to swim with me, and I want you to. Besides, let’s go some place that you haven’t been.”

“South then?” Sherlock began to pace. “What about Brighton?”

“Brighton would be good. I’ve never been.”

Sherlock stopped pacing in front of John and grinned. “Neither have I. Let’s leave tomorrow. I can get us a room right near the water.”

“Are you certain we can get away that fast? I should call the surgery. They probably think I’m dead.” John moved to pick up his mobile.

“John,” said Sherlock gently, “do you really think you can continue to work at the surgery with your condition?”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh fuck!” he said, dropping the mobile onto the floor. He had momentarily forgotten himself. He sat down in his chair. It hadn’t occurred to John that because of his transformation at such inconvenient times, there wouldn’t be a way for him to work as late as he normally had. “I could call and ask about changing the times, I suppose, but I normally have no say in the matter when they schedule me, especially when I'm on call. What if I needed to stay late because of an emergency one day? Or someone kept me? I’d be ruined. I don’t know what happens if I’m not in water when the fever comes. It could kill me, I think.”

Sherlock sat across from him and rested his head in his palm. His eyes were full of concern as he studied John. “We can figure something out.”

John looked at him. “Does this mean I can’t be a doctor anymore? I think it does.” he whispered, taking a sharp breath in and squeezing his eyes hut. 

“No! Of course not. We’ll find a way around this. That’s why taking a holiday is good for us now. It’ll give us time to think.” The sight of John’s expression broke Sherlock’s heart. He saw the way the doctor’s brow was furrowed, the small creases around his eyes were crinkled and the corners of his mouth turned down. 

“How the hell am I supposed to make a living?” John blurted out. “How the fuck am I supposed to even bloody live now? I’m going to be stuck. I’ll be constantly restrained by this—this,” he waved his hand trying to find the right word, “disease!” he finished, standing up.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. His mind was reeling with alternative options, plans, and solutions. But for the first time, he thought it would perhaps be better if he kept his mouth shut for the moment.

“I’m going for a walk.” John shrugged his coat back on.

“Do you want company?” Sherlock asked.

“No!” said John. Then he added a bit more quietly, “thank you—but no. I just need to be alone for a bit.”

 

* * *

 

John walked around Regent’s Park uncomprehendingly. The fresh cool air felt refreshing on his face. Regent’s Park looked beautiful in the autumn and John failed to notice the beauty of the turning leaves and the last glittering rays of sunlight painting everything from the white houses perfect lined up on the Park Crescent to the dull grey-green grass in shades of gold before it set.

John sat down underneath the circular memorial that was set away from the path. It was a good place to sit and watch the sun lower itself on the horizon; it was a round structure with a metal awning and a concrete platform that was low to the grass. John worried away bits of the grass with his fingers. He couldn’t believe that he’d never be able to practice medicine again. A small voice in the back of his mind told him that he would have to figure something out, but John wasn’t listening to reason at the moment.

His transformation was so unbelievably frustrating because there was no way for him to tell anyone else but Sherlock and Molly and Mycroft about it. If he rang up Sarah at the clinic suddenly and said, _sorry, I can’t work anymore because I’m a half-fish man who needs a body of water every evening so that I don’t go out of my mind with fever_ , she’d think he’d gone completely mad. John thought that perhaps he was already completely mad.

He continued to furiously rip up small pieces of grass between his fingers, thinking about what he was going to do. He didn’t want to call Sarah, but he knew he needed to. He brought out his mobile and stared at it for a good minute before he pushed in the number. It took him three tries before he let the call go through.

His conversation with Sarah was brief. She sounded angry at his abruptness, until John told her that he was very sick, and then finally she sounded sympathetic. She asked if he needed anything, or if she could come visit. John hastily replied that it wasn’t necessary and that put her off again. Overall, it could have been worse.

After he pocketed his mobile, John sat watching the street lamps come on, covering the park in a soft glow the colour of gilded copper. It was really quite beautiful. And warming.

John’s skin began to prickle with warmth and he shot up off of the freezing concrete that he had been sitting on. Whilst thinking and talking to Sarah, he had lost track of the time. _I’m such an idiot_ , he thought. He couldn't believe that he had let himself become so lost in his head that he didn't know the time. His body temperature steadily rising. He knew that he had two options. The first was to run as fast as he could back to Baker Street, gathering unwanted attention, and possibly passing out before getting there. The second option was to find water— _fast_ —that would also gain unwanted attention with the threat of getting caught. John reckoned that he was about fifteen minutes from the flat, ten if he ran as fast as he possibly could. 

John didn’t know if he had that much time. He was burning up and it was becoming increasingly harder to concentrate on even the most simple thoughts. The park was fairly empty; there had been a few people milling about but most had gone home as it began to get dark.

 The duck pond near one of the entrances to the Park back toward Baker Street was going to have to do. He vaguely considered the lack of salt in the water, but he didn’t have a choice. He just needed to cool down.

John ran, quickly scanning the area for any onlookers. He followed the path and ran downhill to the pond with his feet pounding loudly on the ground and his heartbeat in his ears. As he rounded the corner, the duck pond came into view.

There was one lone couple tossing breadcrumbs into the water and onto the path next to the pond. A flock of birds was surrounding them and John suddenly dropped to the ground and crouched low beneath some brambles. They had thorns and he felt them scratch and dig into his back and legs. He knew that if he remained quiet and didn’t gain any attention, he might be able to slip into the water unseen.

As he got closer, John saw that the two people were very preoccupied with what they were doing. A young woman was laughing softly as she threw small chunks of bread and watched the birds scramble around her in a frenzy. The golden light made her look younger than she actually was, and then man standing next to her had his arm casually slung around her lower back.

John felt as though every movement he made was excruciatingly loud, but as his temperature rose he began to care less and less about what was happening. He just needed to get into the water or he felt as though he would die from the heat.

He dropped to all fours and crouched low in the grass, like some animal stalking its prey. He trained his eyes upon the water and moved quickly through the grass.

 John didn’t bother with his clothes. He was beyond comprehension and delirious with fever. He slunk headfirst into the pond, not catching any attention from the couple, and gasped in relief as the cool water instantly cleared his head and allowed him to change. The pond was muddy and thick with debris and vegetation. John didn’t really want to think much about what he was swimming in, but the lack of sodium seemed to not matter very much. He supposed that it was because there was probably quite a bit of…nutrients in the water from the ducks, and the food from the people who fed them. His shirt stayed on, but his trousers ripped, as his tail was too big for them. John shrugged them off and propelled himself forward.

After his head had cleared the next thing John realised was that he had gasped underwater without drowning. In fact, he didn’t need to come to the surface at all. He could breathe just fine. The shock of knowing he could breathe underwater nearly made him pop back up, but he stopped himself just in time so that he would not reveal himself to the people at the pond’s edge above him. So he remained under, knowing that he would need to stay beneath the surface in a duck shit pond for the next two and a half hours. He inwardly groaned. 


	12. Chapter 12

John was thankful for the darkness, but he desperately hoped that no one would see him. He wished that he could call Sherlock. His phone was in the pocket of trousers when he went into the water and now it was completely dead. John was kicking himself for rushing out of the flat and being so impulsive and stupid.

As he settled himself in the small pond he felt calm-- calmer than he had felt in weeks. It was as if something deep and elemental was unfurling within him as he sucked in the muddy water and felt it filter through his body and bring oxygen straight to his head. It brought clarity. He felt everything in his body quiet and still as he pushed through the water, using his tail to propel himself forward. It was incredible how fast he could actually move with a minimal amount of effort. John had an acute sense as to what was surrounding him at all times and he found himself thinking that he was glad that he could stay completely submerged. Coming back to the surface was very unappealing as curiosity spread through him. He needed to explore every part of the small pond. Things were much more simple under the water. All he needed to do was breathe and let the water guide his thoughts and movements.  

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knew John had gone to Regent’s Park. It was the only place John went whenever they’d had a row. Sherlock sat in his chair and experimented with his violin, plucking the strings and pulling too hard on one, nearly snapping it. _John wasn’t coming back_. As the sun set lower in the sky Sherlock became more apprehensive when John didn’t show up.

As he thought back to his conversation with John, he knew that they didn’t exactly have a row exactly. Sherlock could understand why John was so upset. But what he couldn’t quite comprehend was John’s anxiety about earning a living. Didn’t he know that Sherlock was going to look out for him? He would always make sure they had a roof over their heads and food on the table, for the rest of their lives. John didn’t need to worry about trivialities like that. Sherlock had inherited quite a large fortune and the money that they got from clients was extremely generous as the detective and his doctor became more famous.

 _John hadn’t even needed to work at the clinic,_ Sherlock thought with a frown. But that was exactly where the problem was. It wasn’t a matter of practicalities and trivialities. Sherlock knew that John needed to be independent, and he needed to have something of his own. He took pride in his work--and he had passion--just as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't be able to rely on him completely without going mad.

The sun set fully and it would only be another thirty minutes before John would turn. Surely, John wouldn’t be that careless, would he?

Sherlock swung his violin, placed it back into his case, and grabbed his coat. He needed to find John before it was too late.

* * *

 

From where John lay at the bottom of the duck pond, he could see that there weren't any people standing near the water. Even though he knew he was hidden, he still let out a sigh of relief as he realised this. The less people, the better.

He turned on his back and looked up to the surface, watching the light refract over the water, dancing in patterns. _Since I can breathe underwater, can I still breathe above too?_ The thought struck him suddenly and before he could panic, John made the decision to find out. Cautiously, he moved to the edge of the pond where the water became shallow and he lifted his head up and breathed in the cool night air, reassuring himself that he could still breathe air too.

John had made a mistake. There was someone there, only she was too small for him to see at first. 

A little girl, no more than five years old, stood at the pond’s edge with her hand held out, coaxing a duck nearby in the lamp light. Her blonde hair was plaited neatly over her shoulder and as soon as she saw John’s head—and consequently tail—flip out of the water, she froze, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. John froze too, making brief eye contact, before ducking down and propelling himself as deep as he could beneath the surface.

Her voice echoed down to John’s ears. “Mummy, mummy! I just saw a mermaid!” she screamed.  

John didn’t stick around to hear more.

 

Sherlock came around the bend in the path that led to the pond as he heard the little girl yell. He had already guessed that John was in the water, but she only confirmed his suspicion. Trotting down to the water’s edge, he bent down on his knees and peered keenly into the pond, looking for any sign of movement. He walked over to the little girl who was adamantly recounting the story of her sighting to her mother. “Where did you see the mermaid?” he asked her.

She pointed to where John’s head had stuck out previously, not bothered by Sherlock's sudden intrusion, but rather, she was excited to tell anyone who would listen to what she saw. “Just there,” she confirmed. “He had a pretty blue tail and hair the colour of mine.”

Sherlock followed to where she was pointing with his eyes. There was no John in sight. He thanked her and left, following the edge of the water looking for any sign of John. He saw the mother tug on her daughter's hand to pull her away from the pond. They walked out of the park.

Sherlock was still scanning the water. Certainly he would need to come up for air sometime? Something fluttered in his chest as he realised that the doctor was not surfacing to breathe. Had John drowned? 

Before sheer panic took over Sherlock, he paused when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He saw something move beneath the surface; something dark blue and blond flash for a moment. It was the only confirmation he needed to spring into action.

 

* * *

 

John’s heartbeat was returning to normal after the brief awkward encounter with the child. He knew that he didn’t have much time left before he changed and could go home. He closed his eyes and waited, thinking about how he was going to manage to get back to Baker Street without being seen in soggy ripped trousers and a shirt. He reckoned that it was a good thing only a child saw him. A child that could have her story mistaken as a fantasy or daydream. It could have been much worse. 

His thoughts cut off when bubbles erupted all around him as a heavy weight jumped into the water. John's vision was obscured by the dark figure that suddenly grabbed his waist and pushed him to the surface. John fought against his attacker, using the full force of his fin to push them away and heard a nasty crunch. Probably a wrist, John realised. He wriggled out of the grasp and swam away as best he could. 

John turned back to look at his attacker and saw Sherlock’s shocked face, gripping his wrist in pain under the water.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John yelled under the water, but all that came out was a muffled sound followed by a stream of bubbles.

He swam back to his help his friend and at the same time his fin rapidly began to disappear. John kicked with his legs, temporarily shocked by the loss of power from his fin. The contrast made him suddenly feel weak and unequipped for swimming with only his legs. He pulled the two of them toward the surface, feeling light-headed and needing oxygen. He could no longer breathe under the water.

Thankfully, since the little girl had left, they hadn’t been seen. Sherlock clutched his hand to his chest and coughed violently as John dragged them up to the bank.

“You broke my wrist,” Sherlock confirmed in between coughs.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought you were that little girl, or her mum, come to try to capture me or something.”

“And I thought you were dead when I didn’t see you come to the surface!” Sherlock’s voice was raised. “You thought I was a little girl?”

“No, you git, I wasn’t thinking straight.” John reached out for Sherlock’s wrist. “Let me see it.”  Sherlock reluctantly let John take it. As John examined it, he realised it wasn’t actually broken. “It’s just a sprain. Let’s go home and put some ice on it.”

“Are you sure it’s not broken?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m positive.” They stood up and John sighed as he looked down at himself. His trousers were in a state of disarray. His shirt was waterlogged and it clung to his skin uncomfortably. Sherlock didn’t fare any better. John looked up to see Sherlock appreciatively studying the way his shirt clung to his chest and John tried his best not to blush. Even when he was in pain, Sherlock was still focused on John. 

“Why is it that I have been jumping into large bodies of water lately, in order to save you?”

“Because you care about me?”

“Cheeky bastard.” Sherlock reached out with his arm and drew John into an awkward hug, letting his sprained wrist stay at his side. “I thought you drowned.”

“I can breathe underwater.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and looked down at him. “Now that’s interesting, I’ll have to look into that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back home,” John said, his voiced muffled against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m an complete idiot. I lost track of the time—”

“Let's not talk about this right now; I want to go home and put ice on my wrist. Just know, you had me worried senseless. But I knew where you were. I was running over here trying to get you back to Baker Street in time.”

“I found an alternative,” John said weakly.

Sherlock reached out and affectionately pulled out a cluster of mud, leaves, and silt from John’s hair. “You certainly did, my darling.”

It was the first time John had ever heard Sherlock use a term of endearment, and he smiled all the way back to Baker Street, despite the guilt he felt for spraining his wrist.

 


	13. Chapter 13

John agreed to take a holiday, but they decided to wait a few days to leave for Brighton because he was very adamant about letting Sherlock’s wrist recover fully so that they would both enjoy the holiday. Plus, it would be one less thing for Sherlock to complain and grumble about.

They bought their rail tickets two days before they were scheduled to leave. John thought about packing but he kept putting it off, leaving it for the last minute as usual. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table just after lunch the day before they were set to leave, with his curry pushed away and half-eaten in front of him. He was peering at a sample through his microscope whilst John stood behind him, absentmindedly carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and waiting for the kettle to boil.

“The scales on your fin and those of a fish are identical, even at the microscopic level,” he murmured without looking up. John didn’t reply and Sherlock kept his eyes glued to whatever he was working on. “That’s incredibly distracting, you know,” he said softly, tilting his head back and leaning into John’s touch.

John’s hand froze. “I’m sorry. I could stop,” he said, the corners of his mouth tilting upward.

“Please don’t.”

“Git,” John said affectionately.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed on the table in front of him. He leaned forward and snatched it up. “Mycroft,” he said, reading the text at rapid speed, his eyes darting dramatically back and forth across the screen before typing a short response. “He wants to come over for dinner tonight. I said no, naturally.”

John chuckled and poured their tea, the steam rising through the air. He handed a cup to Sherlock. “What makes you think your brother will be put off by that?”

“I’ll lock the doors. I’ll get rid of all our food. There will be no excuses.”

“We don’t have any food to begin with—Sherlock—seems how someone hasn’t bought any bread or milk for several days.”

“There’s a couple of Jammie Dodgers left.”

“Brilliant. We’ll serve Mycroft Jammie Dodgers for dinner.”

“He’s not coming to dinner.” Sherlock’s mobile buzzed again.

“Would you like to place a bet?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed. “He insists. He says he has news.” A third buzz. “He also says that he’ll bring dinner since I’m incompetent.”

John laughed and took a sip of his tea.

“You’re not supposed to side with him, John,” Sherlock huffed.

The doctor leaned over and placed his hand on Sherlock’s jaw, willing him to make eye contact. “I’m not on his side,” John said, his voice low. He leaned in and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth with a smile. 

 

* * *

 

John decided to go to Tesco to get a few things for dinner because he didn’t feel like being at the mercy of whatever Mycroft decided to bring. Instead of sitting around the flat and thinking about their upcoming holiday, he wanted to keep himself busy.

“John, dear!” Mrs Hudson cried out as John was opening the front door. He paused when he heard her, with his hand on the door handle. “You don’t happen to be going round to the shops, are you?” she asked him.

“Actually, I was, Mrs Hudson.” John saw her come around out of her flat to greet him in the hallway. “Did you need something?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, would you mind picking up some pasta? Any kind will do. Do you know if Sherlock and Mycroft like capers?”

“Um, I think so.” John thought it was a rather peculiar thing to ask.

“Perfect. Could you get me some of those too? It’ll go nicely with what I’m making for dinner.”

“Sure—hang on. Dinner?” John frowned.

“Didn’t Mycroft tell you?” she asked him. “It’s not supposed to be a surprise..well...at least the dinner part isn’t.” She tilted her head slightly to the side.

“What is it?” John was becoming apprehensive. He didn’t even know that Mrs Hudson and Mycroft communicated beyond what he saw in 221B.

“Mycroft and I are coming over for dinner tonight. I’m making it. I’ll bring it up to your flat.”

“Sherlock did mention that Mycroft was coming for dinner, but he failed to inform me that you’d be cooking.” 

“Oh well. It’ll be fun. Mycroft and I have news, it’s very exciting.”

John’s eyes widened. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, and no sound came out.

“Oh goodness, John! It’s nothing like that! What you must think of me! It’s just a small present that we put together for you and Sherlock. For your holiday.”

John blushed. _Oh!_ He wasn't sure how Mrs Hudson knew about their upcoming holiday, but he supposed nothing slipped past Mycroft's surveillance. He must have informed her. “That’s—that’s nice of you Mrs Hudson. There’s really no need—”

“No, it’s all settled,” she insisted. “I’ll see you at 6.30. Thank you so much for getting the pasta. You can just nip in and put it in the kitchen when you get back.”

“Alight, Ta, Mrs Hudson. I’ll see you in a bit.” A slightly bewildered John walked out of the flat.

 

* * *

 

There was a knock at the door at exactly 6.31. Sherlock and John stood facing the mirror over the fireplace, and Sherlock was standing behind John, running a comb through John’s hair. John turned around and quickly straightened the collar of a crisp white-buttoned shirt that Sherlock was wearing. The doctor reached up and undid a top button, exposing Sherlock’s neck, bringing his lips to place a kiss above Sherlock’s collarbone. “Mm. Much better,” said John.

“Now you’re going to be distracted all throughout dinner,” Sherlock accused him.

“I might be, yes,” said John, looking up and giving him a devilish grin. “I don’t mind it one bit though.” He gave him another kiss.

John was surprised to see Sherlock blush, bringing a lovely pale colour to his cheeks. John left him standing there to collect himself and walked over and answered the door before the detective could respond.

In the doorway stood Mrs Hudson with a giant covered green ceramic dish—dinner, John supposed—and an elegantly dressed Mycroft complete in a Harris Tweed jacket and umbrella.

“Come in,” said John. “Let me take that from you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble dear,” she walked past him to put the dish on the table that John had just set a few minutes previous.

Mycroft held up another container. “I brought salad,” he said with raised eyebrows, before following Mrs Hudson to the table. Sherlock snickered from the living room.

The wine was poured and Mrs Hudson revealed a delicious dish of Greek lemon chicken and pasta. Everyone was quiet, with the sound of clinking dinnerware and vivacious chewing. John became uncomfortable with the silence and he vaguely wondered how long their guests were thinking of staying. He knew that he was going to have to be rude—if they decided to stay too long—and kick them out before he changed and ran to the bathroom in a fever.

Mycroft cleared his throat, which seemed to be suddenly too loud for the small space. John flinched; Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So, John. Sherlock,” he said abruptly. “There is a reason why we wanted to…er…have this little gathering tonight.”

“You mean you don’t normally push your way in to a private residence whenever you fancy it?”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson chided. “Be nice. Your brother’s got something special.”

Mycroft hesitated. “Well, it’s thanks to you, Mrs Hudson, that we can do this in the first place.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is it?” snapped Sherlock.

John reached over and placed his hand over Sherlock’s in a not-so-subtle way to placate him. _A bit not good_ , the touch said. 

“Well,” Mycroft began. “As you know, Mrs Hudson’s late husband had quite the extensive amount of properties all throughout Latin and Central America.”

“It was the drugs,” added Mrs Hudson. “You know, he needed places where he could stay and be close to the source. In fact, I remember many nights in Belize, it was rather romantic really, when he would come home after being with his cartel all day—and well—it was really quite warm. Our beach house was quite secluded; there were no need for clothes—”

“But the point being,” interrupted Mycroft rather loudly, “is that Mrs Hudson had inherited several of these small villas after her husband’s death.”

Mrs Hudson was unperturbed by the interruption. “I’ve sold off a few… rented a several out as well. But I’ve never done much with them. I have one that happens to be very nice on the Roatan Island off the coast of Honduras. It’s empty right now and it’s very private and right on the beach.”

The pieces were beginning to click in John’s mind about what Mrs Hudson was proposing. But dinner was ending and his temperature was rising. “Mrs Hudson,” he began in a choked voice, but John’s words failed him. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said in a rush. His brow was covered in sweat and his breathing was laboured. He yanked at the collar of his shirt.

“Dear god, John. Are you alright?” asked Mycroft, looking at the doctor in alarm.

“F-fine,” he managed, before standing up from the table with his chair making a loud screech against the floor. He ran to the bath.

“Don’t forget the salt, John!” Sherlock stood up and yelled after him, setting down his fork.

 

* * *

 

After he had fully changed, embarrassment flooded John as he lay in the bath listening to the muffled conversation coming from the kitchen. He didn’t want Mrs Hudson or Mycroft to ever have to bear witness to one of his fever tantrums; but there it had happened already.

There was a soft knock at the door. “John?” asked Sherlock gently. “Would you mind if we all came in?”

John nearly said no. With a second thought, he decided that since they already knew what was happening to him—and were really only trying to help—he’d let them in. He took a deep breath in and out before answering, preparing himself for the reactions. 

“Alright,” he called out.

Mycroft stepped into the room first, followed by Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. He looked down at John’s fin for a good twenty seconds with an unreadable expression on his face. Mrs Hudson gasped; Sherlock sat down on the floor and leaned against the bath next to John, as usual.

“It’s really quite extraordinary,” said Mrs Hudson, after looking at John. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

John felt like a test subject under a microscope.

“This reaffirms what Mrs Hudson and I were just talking about,” said Mycroft, his voice distant and eyes fixed on John’s fin. He hadn’t moved or taken a step further into the room since he’d seen John.

“My eyes are up here, Mycroft,” said John dryly. Sherlock let out a full-bellied laugh, which John rarely ever heard. It made him grin. He loved making Sherlock laugh like that.

Mrs Hudson swooped down and sat next to the bath, joining Sherlock. She took John’s hand.  “John. Listen to me. In light of recent events, it would be wonderful for you and Sherlock to stay at my villa. Just the two of you. You can swim all you want.”

Mycroft seemed to have gotten a hold of his senses and decided not to comment on John’s state of being. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cream envelope. “Everything is already arranged. You’ll have a private jet that will get you there in less than eight hours, so that John, you needn’t worry about changing whilst you travel. Someone will meet you on the island to take you to the villa. It’s fully stocked with just about everything you need, but walking distance to a small village. You can stay as long as you want. One phone call is all I need to get you back to London in a matter of hours.”

John looked to Sherlock and he found that Sherlock was already studying him with his intense gaze. “What do you think? Better than Brighton?”

Sherlock gave a small shrug. “I think you would enjoy it better.”

“I want what you want, Sherlock. If you still fancy Brighton, let’s stay with that plan.”

“Honduras is warmer. I’ve been wanting to practise my Spanish,” Sherlock said indifferently.

John knew that Sherlock didn’t want to be indebted to his brother. The entire thing was very generous of both Mycroft and Mrs Hudson. He looked away from Sherlock and studied the water that came up to his waist. _It would be brilliant to be able to swim in open water again_ , he thought. Just thinking about it made John’s body hum with elemental excitement.

“We care about you, John…Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson cut through their thoughts. “Please let us do something for you.”

“While we figure out what to do with you,” added Mycroft. “I mean—” he stopped himself, realising how rude he had sounded. “John, we need to figure out what is going to happen if you insist on continuing your living arrangements at 221B.”

"What do you mean?” John asked sharply.

Sherlock looked murderous. “Of course he’s going to stay here.”

“He can’t live half his life in a bathtub,” argued Mycroft.

“So we build a pool!” shouted Sherlock, his voice rising suddenly. “So we move to Sussex, or somewhere else near the sea! Or we find a cure for him! You are not taking him away from me!”

John’s stomach lurched. He didn’t like hearing Sherlock talk about his change as though it were a disease that needed to be cured. John was beginning to accept this new part of him, and perhaps he could come to terms with it eventually. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to find a cure. Although he longed to have a normal life again--with chasing criminals in dark alleys and staying out until four in the morning--John was starting to like this change that happened within his body. It was as though it gave him permission to become briefly wild and undone. Those feelings were always there; it was something that John had always thought he needed to suppress.  

Mycroft remained calm at his younger brother’s outburst. “We will find a long-term solution, Sherlock. In the meantime, please, for the benefit of all of us, take a holiday.”

Sherlock glared at his brother and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Fine.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” said John.

“As soon as my brother is done acting like an infant, the two of you should pack and make arrangements to leave here no later than eight o'clock tomorrow morning for the airport. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Yes, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson. Thank you. Both of you, it really is a wonderful surprise,” John tried to amend.

“That’s alright, dear.” Mrs Hudson patted his hand again. “Don’t you worry. We’re going to get this all sorted out. I wouldn’t mind having a private swimming pool nearby for all of us, if we can manage one.”

John laughed. “Perhaps if we win the lottery, Mrs Hudson.”

She frowned. “Are you alright dear, really? It’s a bit of a shock—I must admit—seeing you like this.”

“I’m perfectly alright. I’ve gotten rather used to this,” he gestured vaguely at his fin.

“John, I apologise for leaving while you are indisposed but surely you can understand,” said Mycroft.

“Of course,” said John. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll be in touch, John. There are some things I would like to discuss with you.”

 

After Mycroft and Mrs Hudson had left, Sherlock sat with John for the final moments before he changed back to his fully human form.

“So,” said John. “Just the two of us, the sea, and an empty villa for as long as we’d like.”

“It sounds too good to be true. I think Mycroft is up to something,” replied Sherlock.

He reached out and threaded his fingers through John’s. John brought Sherlock’s fingers to his lips and kissed each one individually. “You won’t be bored?” John asked. He was worrying about the lack of activities that Sherlock could keep himself busy with in such a remote location. Perhaps it was a mistake to go so far from London.

“John,” said Sherlock. “I could never possibly be bored. You’re all I need.” John smiled and lowered his eyes. “Besides," he added,"I’m going to take a huge box of cold cases that Lestrade gave me a month ago.”

John laughed, tilting his head back. He had already begun to feel his body making the change back to his human form. “Git,” he said affectionately. “Let’s go pack.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I just want to thank all of you for the wonderful comments that I've received in the last few months. Even though I haven't responded to every single one, they all mean so much and help motivate me to continue. I'm excited to update this story regularly again and finally finish it. This chapter is a short one, but they'll be more soon.

Mycroft’s private jet was waiting for them as soon as they arrived at the airport and Sherlock was first to point out every single interior design flaw. “Cheap carpeting, probably bought in some back alley near Brick Lane, the wallpapering was manufactured before 1961. And John, do you see the wood panelling on the ceiling? It’s not even real wood, just laminate made to look like some dodgy gentlemen’s club, no doubt the influence of the Diogenes—"

But John wasn’t paying attention anymore. Since they had taken off, John felt nauseated, which wasn't common for him. He was beginning to regret the bacon roll picked up last-minute at a Greggs around the corner from their flat. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the offending breakfast and had refused to eat, but John didn’t worry. They’d cook something once they got the villa.

John realised that Sherlock had stopped talking and turned his head toward his partner, grimacing.

“John? What’s the matter?”

“S’alright,” John grunted. “I’ll be fine. Just a bit queasy.”

Sherlock frowned. “The typical speed of a commercial airliner is only 500 miles per hour, unless it’s a bigger jet and in that case it would average out about to be about 550, or 560 depending on the weight of the cargo and the tail winds, and with that speed—"

John held up his hand and closed his eyes. He could tell how excited Sherlock was by their adventure because of how much he was talking. “Sherlock, please, darling. I just need a bit of sleep, otherwise, I think I might be sick.”

Sherlock stood up and walked a few paces over to where John was now laying down on one of the long window seats in the back of the jet. He sat down next to him and took his hand. “All I’m saying is that this jet is Mycroft’s. Which means that it travels much faster than a common commercial airliner. We’ll be there in no time,” said Sherlock softly. He gave John’s fingers a gentle squeeze.

John smiled faintly, his eyes still closed. “Take a nap with me, then.”

“John, you know perfectly well that I cannot sleep right now. I slept a full eight hours last night. I’m good for two days at least.”

John didn’t respond. He had begun to sleep.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do with himself. He couldn’t start with the box of cold case files just yet; he’d get through them all before the week was up. So he resolved to stare out the window and classify the cloud types and their patterns. He wished John would wake up so that he could share his findings.

John woke thirty minutes before they were scheduled to land and Sherlock promptly informed him so. He held up his notebook eagerly.

Look at the cloud patterns, John! Sherlock was nearly bouncing in his seat. “Cumulus, stratus, altocumulus, cirrostratus... there are so many different ones that I’ve spotted so far. I’ve noted their frequency, texture, size and general shape.”

John looked at the notebook with amusement. “Much more scintillating than tobacco ash, I think.”

“Although, there are a lot less types of clouds than there are of tobacco ash,” Sherlock concluded, putting away his notebook with a snap. The plane had begun to decrease. “Look, John. We’re nearly there,” he nodded to the window. "Are you feeling better?" 

"I am now," said John. "I think my air sickness has something to do with, well, you know..." he gestured vaguely at his legs. 

Sherlock nodded. "It makes sense, I suppose. More data needs to be collected." 

John didn't know what exactly 'more data' meant, but he didn't want to at the moment. He looked out and saw the clear blue sea below them. The sun was beginning to set and the light reflected off the water spectacularly, catching and glittering on the tops of waves and within the deep cool swells below them. It nearly took his breath away.

“The moment we land, I have to get in that water,” he said.

"Obviously I'll go with you," said Sherlock. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The villa was tucked away beneath a hoard of overgrown foliage, on the edge of the tree line that gave way to a massive forest.

“Between the sea and the trees,” said John. They were walking across the beach toward their new temporary home. Sherlock’s expensive black Oxford shoes kept getting stuck in the finely powdered sand. They stood out in stark contrast against the pale, nearly pink hue of the sand.

“John,” said Sherlock hotly. “How am I supposed to walk in this? It’s worse than snow.”

John was halfway to the villa in his determination to stow away his stuff and get into the water as fast as possible. His back was slumped with his frayed backpack high up on his shoulders. He turned around to find Sherlock several yards behind him, kicking up sand, which went flying in every direction. Sherlock’s feet were sinking a quarter inch every step. 

John doubled back and walked up to Sherlock. “It’ll keep doing that if you don’t pick up your feet. Take off your shoes." 

Sherlock looked down to see John’s bare feet wiggling in the sand next to him. “Absolutely not,” he said.

“Then you’ll have to get sandals or something. You can’t walk in those.” The look on Sherlock’s face was priceless. It was as though John had suggested that he cut off his own toes. John, thoroughly bemused, grabbed Sherlock’s sleek black bag and slung in over his left shoulder. “You just focus on walking. I’ve got this.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“I guess you’re some sort of expert at this then.”

“Plenty of sand in Afghanistan I suppose. You get used to it. Along with carrying packs, walking long distances, and things like that.”

For once, Sherlock didn’t have a comeback.

They continued their slow hike up the beach. John was beginning to feel warmer, and it wasn’t because of the weather. He knew that he didn't have a lot of time before he would change. The sun had almost set, emphasising the light and turning the shadows. The palm fronds from the tree line were looming forward toward the sea as the wind changed direction. The waves lapped quietly along the shore and John could smell a trace of salt.

With the pull of the tide too strong, John realised that he couldn’t wait any longer. “Sherlock, I’ve got to get in that water now," he called. He dumped their suitcases into the sand, to Sherlock’s chagrin, and ran to the edge of the shore, flinging off his shirt and starting on his trousers.

“Wait!” Sherlock yelped. “What if someone sees you?”

John paused, spinning around wildly as though looking for someone. “Who is there to see me? Besides you, of course.” He rose one eyebrow and grinned.

Sherlock loved John’s grins, and they came in many different varieties. This one was rare and it spread across John’s face and was annoyingly contagious. Sherlock could count on one hand how many times he’d seen that type of grin on John’s face. “You’re cheeky tonight,” he called to John’s fast retreating back. He didn’t think John heard him and with some trepidation he removed his Oxfords, then his socks. He hesitated with his shirt, glancing up at John once more. He was already waist deep in the water with his head tipped back toward the darkening horizon.

Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his shirt and got rid of his trousers, opting to keep his pants on. He ran quickly into the sea so that John would not see him. He could tell by the way that John bobbed gracefully in the water that he had already changed into his merman form.

It was a relief to be swimming after the hot afternoon and stuffy plane ride, even though Sherlock wasn’t usually one for swimming excursions. There was something about breathing in recycled air for eight hours in a cramped compartment that made flying nearly unbearable for Sherlock. He breathed out heavily as though to extinguish all of the remnants from their travel. 

John’s face was blissful. He swam to Sherlock and held out his hand. “I knew you’d enjoy it.”

The temperature of the water was surprisingly not too cold even with the sun now fully set. Sherlock floated quietly on the surface while John swam gentle laps nearby. The water came up past Sherlock’s ears and lapped at his temples; the sound of the surf and rustling palm fronds became muted. Instead, he could hear his own heartbeat along with each breath that he took and other sounds too—the movement of rocks and shells tumbling together with the waves underneath the surface. The moon came out with a few stars, a near perfect crescent hanging in the sky above them.

John reached out and grasped Sherlock’s fingers under the water suddenly breaking his reverie. John was talking, but his speech was muffled. Sherlock stood up and felt lightheaded as the landscape turned itself upright and sound came rushing back to him. The water came up to Sherlock’s chest as he stood. John’s tail brushed against his leg and he flinched back in surprise at the contact.

“You okay?” asked John. “It’s just my tail. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“How would you know?” The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could even comprehend what he had said. Now, it was John’s turn to recoil. A deep frown took hold of his face that was just moments ago smiling.

“You think I’m going to hurt you?” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded without trusting himself to say anything. It was something that had taken ahold of his mind on the long plane ride that he couldn't quite shake. What if this was a temporary stint for John? What if the moment that he found himself a way to get rid of the merman curse he'd leave? Perhaps John's sudden rush of affection in the past few weeks had been attributed to his dependency on Sherlock. It was now only a matter of time before John went back to his normal life and found a better-suited parter. This small holiday would be some of the last time that Sherlock would be able to spend alone with John. The thought made him ache. 

Very slowly, as though giving Sherlock ample time to move away if he wanted, John reached up and brushed the sodden curls from Sherlock’s forehead before laying his palm on Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The tender gestured made Sherlock feel worse about his unintentional outburst. He leaned into the touch and covered John’s hand with his own. “You say that now, but that’s usually how this sort of thing works, isn’t it? Eventually, it happens. You can’t promise such a thing.” A lump had formed in Sherlock’s throat making it difficult to talk.

“You’re right.” John had come closer to Sherlock. There was a considerable height difference with John’s transformation. The sea came up all the way past his shoulders, nearly to his chin. He had to tilt his head back to make eye contact with his detective. “You’re completely right. I can’t promise that I’ll never hurt you, in fact, I probably will from time to time. Like when you’re being an obnoxious git, or when I have to tackle you to the ground to stop a bullet going through your head or a knife going through your throat. But for what it’s worth, I am completely committed to you. I have no desire to—to seek out anyone else, to go behind your back for any reason. And I will do whatever in my power to protect you, Sherlock.” As John paused, Sherlock didn’t speak. Of course, John always knew how to say the right thing at the right moment. It was as though he could read Sherlock's thoughts. He stared wide-eyed at John, frozen. John hesitated before continuing. “I’ve killed for you once before and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I never want to be separated from you, no matter the circumstances. I suppose it’s that simple.”

Sherlock, too moved to speak, wrapped his arms around John’s torso bringing him out of the water slightly and leaned down to kiss him. John’s lips met his with enthusiasm. John’s kisses were gentle at first and he could taste the salt water that lingered on both of them. He gripped him tighter and John deepened the kiss. Sherlock took note of the pleasant heat that radiated from John’s skin. He never knew how smooth John was, as he moved his hands up his back feeling the muscles near his shoulder blades. He realised this was the first time that he had ever been able to fully hold John without the nuisances of a shirt or bulky jumpers.

John gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck with his right hand and wound his left into Sherlock’s hair, teasing the curls. He ran his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip.

The small act caused Sherlock’s knees to go weak and he lost his balance. He went tumbling backwards into the water, still holding on to John. Water rushed up his nose and John quickly pulled him back up before he became too disoriented. He coughed hard as John thumped him on the back. The seawater caused his throat to swell uncomfortably.

John chuckled and heartily tapped him a couple more times before placing his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. “You’re not supposed to drink it, love.”

“That… what you said—that was good,” he said between little coughs.

“I mean every word.”

“I—me too.”

“You too?” John’s mouth twitched, holding back a smile.

“ I would do the same for you.”

“I know you would.”

Sherlock smiled, coughing a bit more.

“Now, I don’t think we should try that again until we’re safely on shore,” said John.

“The commitment declarations?” Sherlock asked.

“The kissing.”

Sherlock blushed slightly. He was glad that it was getting very dark.

John tugged on his hand. “I want to show you something I discovered while you were floating around. Will you come with me?”

Sherlock was uncertain and john noticed his hesitation. Sherlock wasn’t completely ignorant of what could be swimming with them in the dark ocean at night. “Mycroft used to tease me incessantly about the giant squid,” he blurted out.

John let out a full belly laugh and Sherlock realised how ridiculous he sounded. “I’m not going to take you into the depths of the ocean in the middle of the night, my darling. Jesus… how fast do you think I can swim?” He grinned up at Sherlock and put his hands on his waist, pulling him slightly further into the water. “You’ll love it once you see it. Just trust me.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: it gets a little gruesome toward the end. Nothing in too much detail, but skip it if you don't like reading about injuries.

It was an outcropping of coral reef that John had been so adamant about showing to Sherlock. He could see the rugged outlines of barnacles and small shells that clung to each other. He could even make out a faint red and yellow hue from the coral, but that didn’t make up for the darkness. Even the moon couldn’t illuminate the scene well enough to where he was able to see and appreciate what was in front of him. He realised that John probably had much better senses than him, at least when it came to sea exploring at night. No matter how much Sherlock squinted down into the water, he couldn’t see hardly anything.

John was treading water slightly in front of him staring out at the reef. He turned his head back to Sherlock expectantly to see his reaction.

“I’m sure it’s very nice, John. But honestly, I can’t see much of it.”

John’s face fell for just a fraction before recovering and turning around to look out at the open ocean. “I suppose it’s a bit murky. I thought you’d love to study it. I know it’s not as good as tobacco ash or soil samples from the Thames.”

Sherlock knew how hard John was trying. “Why don’t we come back tomorrow? I’d love to see it in the daylight.” He reached out and drew John against his chest, resting his head atop the smaller man's. “I’m sure it’s gorgeous,” he whispered, placing a kiss on the outer shell of John’s ear.

John shivered against him. “We need to swim back. I’m starting to feel my legs.”

It took them considerably longer to swim to the shore with John completely transforming before they were halfway back. His legs were clumsy and heavy and he could feel the sting of the salt water with every kick.

Reaching the villa was a welcome sight. It was simple and rustic with the gentle sound of the tide echoing through every room. There were two bedrooms, a decent kitchen and a sitting room. John’s bare feet shuffled against the wooden floorboards and it reminded him of Baker Street. He smiled.

John walked down the hallway with Sherlock following him.

“Extra bedroom,” noted John. “ You can use it for experiments.”

“You’re okay with just one?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, I mean you’ve been sleeping in my bed at home. Why would it change here? Unless you’d rather—"

“No! Of course not,” Sherlock said suddenly, mortified at the idea.

John grinned. “Alright then. Let’s take this one.” He opened the door to the master bedroom, which had a small veranda that overlooked the ocean. There was a deep tub in the bathroom and giant four-poster bed made of sturdy oak. “Check this out, Sherlock. It’s romantic, isn’t it?” John moved back the netted white canopy that was draped above the bed and pushed back the thick cotton duvet.

“Romantic is one way of looking at it. I believe that’s for mosquitos, John.”

“I know it is, you berk. I just thought it added charm.”

John decided to take a shower and Sherlock climbed into the bed to wait for him to get out. His eyelids were heavy and he could feel the residual movement of the day’s travel still taking effect on his body. His thoughts drifted as he planned out the next day. He’d take sand samples and study the different types of plankton.

John slid into bed smelling of tea tree and eucalyptus. His hair was still damp and his skin soft and warm from the shower. He smiled affectionately at Sherlock, whose eyes were already closed. He had fallen asleep with the light on, his breaths deep and even. John kissed his unwrinkled brow and clicked the lamp off above him, crawling into bed and wrapping himself around Sherlock. He fell asleep moments after his head hit the pillow.

* * *

 

John woke to the sound of frogs and crickets singing in the early morning. To his surprise, it was still very dark out. Sherlock still slept peacefully next to him, dark curls mused around his head and a serene expression across his features. John reached out and traced his thumb lightly along Sherlock’s cheek so that he wouldn’t wake him. Who knew that his detective could be so soft and untroubled whilst sleeping? That carefully constructed shield of indifference that he normally wore around other people had been torn down ever since John had begun to transform. At one end, John felt guilty for causing Sherlock to worry so much. Perhaps it would have been better if he'd never been drugged. They'd probably be at Baker Street, solving crimes. _Still helplessly in love with him and not knowing what to do about it,_ John thought. He would have let himself be drugged ten times over if it meant that it would allow their feelings come to light. The whole experience was completely worth it.  

John closed his eyes again, trying to fall back asleep or at least make the moment stretch on a bit longer. It took John a moment to realise what must have woken him up in the first place. It was still too early for him to change; it would be an hour at least before he’d need to get to the water. But his stomach was in knots, in fact, it was churning unpleasantly.

He sat up in bed perhaps a little to fast which didn't help the matter at all. He stumbled out of bed and nearly didn’t make it to the bathroom before getting sick. John counted to ten breathing in and out, fiercely hoping that he didn’t wake Sherlock. He leaned his head against the cool tile of their bathroom, deciding what to do.

A sunrise walk seemed like the best option to calm his stomach before transforming and going for a swim. The thought of food or even tea was unbearable. It was best to go without until the nausea passed.

John paused on his way out of the villa. Perhaps he should have left a note in case Sherlock woke up to find him gone. He glanced around the room for a pen and paper but decided to skip it; he’d be back in an hour at most. Sherlock would probably still be sleeping, or he could deduce where John had went. It would be pretty obvious. There was no way that John was going to stay confined to a bathtub like he did at Baker Street when there was a whole ocean waiting for him.

The coastal breeze felt wonderful against his skin and his stomach began to settle with the rhythm of his walk. It was likely that getting sick had come from traveling the day before. John noticed that his tolerance for certain things had become more sensitive ever since he had begun to transform. He walked along the water’s edge, feeling the sand between his toes and wishing that Sherlock had gotten up earlier to share the moment with him. The detective had been sleeping more than usual and it probably did him a bit of good to be able to relax and get away from London for a while.

John felt the familiar jolt at the base of his spine and his body temperature began to rise. Stepping into the cool water of the ocean was pure bliss. His thoughts began to slide one into the other seamlessly as he swam out toward the coral reef where he had taken Sherlock the night before. There was nothing quite like swimming in the open ocean; it brought stillness. The anxiety of living was momentarily suspended in these quiet moments. He got to the coral reef in record time. The beauty of it was enticing and John did long laps around the entire outcropping of reef moving his tail gracefully just slightly along the top. There wasn't a lot of room between the reef and the waterline because of how tall some of the spires of coral reached. John had to keep his head down and his body parallel to the ground in order to stay under the water. 

It was the most colourful thing John could remember. The coral here was different from what he’d previously seen, although his knowledge of coral was fairly limited growing up in England and living there for most of his life. It grew in clusters of reds, deep violet, and a curious spindly column of electric yellow coral branched out and was scattered throughout. Barnacles, dancing green sea anemones, and curving seaweed were thriving in between everything. Small fish swam around John.

Deciding to take one final lap around the reef, John circled around for the last time. He went slower, taking his time to admire the various fish and coral types. He dared to get closer thinking about Sherlock and how he’d probably be very interested to study everything now that the sun was out and shining steadily on the reef. He made up his mind to bring his detective with him later.

Thinking about Sherlock, still asleep in their bed back at the villa brought clarity to John. He knew that he was already very attached to begin with. But with their newly discovered feelings, John didn’t like being away from Sherlock for too long, especially a sleeping Sherlock who would undoubtedly worry if he woke up to find him gone. John felt a little guilty. He should have left a note.

He turned sharply to the left, toward the shoreline and he felt a sharp, painful resistance when he attempted to swim forward. John twisted his body around in surprise to see that the bottom third of his tail had been caught in some of the bright yellow coral that grew stubbornly between two large boulders, deeply rooted. He tried to reach the end of his tail to untangle himself, but he couldn’t stretch that far. His half-merman, half-human body was entirely disproportionate. 

John huffed in frustration, yanking his tail as hard as he could. Broken scales floated up like glitter in the water and a red stream that was unmistakably blood. The coral had been sharp enough to cut open his tail and wisps of blood dissolved in the water. Resolving not to panic, John carefully began to wiggle his fin, bracing himself against one boulder for leverage. More scales fell away from his tail and John winced in pain. He concentrated on moving slowly to untangle himself.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t much of a dreamer. Occasionally, fleeting images would pass through his mind: a wisp of John’s hair illuminated in the sunlight, a pink mobile phone sitting on a desk, the dirt encrusted underneath Moriarty’s fingernails. But these images never suggested a cohesive meaning. Sherlock was not a storyteller; he believed in fact and figures, crime scenes and the present moment. He left the imagination and Romanticism up to John.

But the first night in the villa he had a dream. It wasn’t just a mild one either. It was bright, full of colour and vivid migraine inducing images that blurred into each other. It had a full plot and jarring dialogue with an aura of anxiety and frustration at its core. Sherlock came out of it slowly, buried beneath layers of his consciousness like waves.

He woke suddenly and his eyes snapped open. Not a single thing that he had just dreamt passed through his memory other than there had been a lot going on. Someone had been talking to him. Instinctively, he reached out to John but quickly found that he was alone in the bed. Sherlock got up and the world came into full focus as the blood rushed from his head. He stood in the centre of the bedroom watching the seagulls whilst the white curtains around the window fluttered in the morning breeze.

“John?” he called out. There was no response. The same anxiety that had been present in his dream came back in full force. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. It was a peculiar feeling that washed over him and Sherlock knew there was something very wrong without knowing exactly what.

            

* * *

 

 

John was on fire. Without warning, a searing pain erupted from his fin where the coral had been in contact. His flesh blistered and the laceration on his tail was opening wider. There was something about the yellow coral that wasn’t right. _Poison yellow coral,_ John realised. The metallic taste of blood surrounded him in the water and he yelled in agony, using all of his strength to pull his fin away from it. He didn’t have much time. He hadn’t lost this much blood since he had been shot in Afghanistan. A significant amount of blood in the open sea didn’t go unnoticed by predators near by. Completely disoriented and dizzy, he gave it his all and pulled one last time, right as his fin began to transform back to his legs.

 

* * *

        

Sherlock tore through each room calling out John’s name and then picked up his mobile to see if the doctor had left a message. It was well past ten in the morning; Sherlock had overslept. John should have been back from his swim by now. His transformations never lasted more than an hour. The thought briefly crossed his mind that perhaps John had gone off to find them breakfast, but it didn’t make sense that he would leave without even a note or a text.

Sherlock went out on the veranda and searched for any sign of John on the beach. He saw a trail of faint footprints outlined in the sand leading to the water from the front of the villa, but there was no trail leading back. That meant that John was still swimming out in the sea, but there was no way that he was still in his merman form. Something had gone terribly wrong.

He ran back inside and threw on his dressing gown, tying it so tightly around himself he could hardly breathe. He ran out the front door and onto the beach, heading straight for the water. He followed John’s footprints that ran parallel along the waterline for several yards until they abruptly stopped and faded. A deep, hallow sound involuntarily escaped from the back of Sherlock’s throat. He didn’t have much time. Water erased clues faster than anything else could. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the familiar number, wishing there was some other way to ask for help. The call was picked up on the first ring.

“Enjoying your holiday, little brother?”

“John’s missing, he’s somewhere out in the ocean. How fast can you get a helicopter over here?”

Sherlock could count on one hand how many times he had heard Mycroft swear. There was a brief pause.

“In ten minutes. Seven, if we’re lucky.” Sherlock heard Mycroft speaking into another telephone nearby. A moment later, he came back on the line. “Don’t get into the water, Sherlock. Stay right were you are. I’m sending help.”

Sherlock threw his phone into the sand and ran into the sea after John.

 

* * *

 

 

John broke through the surface of the water taking in great gasps of air. Using his arms, he tried to swim toward the shore, which was still quite far. He was loosing feeling in his legs other than the sharp throb coming from his open wound. From what he could see, the gash started at his left knee and was at its deepest toward the inside of his foot. His right leg was covered in cuts and blisters. The blood loss finally taking its toll, John lost consciousness.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock knew exactly the place to swim to. There was no doubt in his mind where John would have gone. He had been so fascinated with the coral reef the night before; surely he would be keen to explore it during the day. It was the best explanation of all the facts. 

He didn’t think as he swam meticulously out to the reef, scanning everything for signs of a struggle. The waves pulled at him and the salt water stung his eyes. It was entirely too bright with the sun well above the horizon.

He saw blood before he saw John. The way it diffused around John's body reminded him of a teabag dropping in a cup of boiling water. The doctor was floating on the surface and Sherlock's heart stopped--he was only able to recognise him by the silver blond bob of hair that rose to the surface and fanned out around him like a halo. He had never registered until now how long John had been growing out his hair. In any other circumstance he would have thought it suited him. 

Sherlock grabbed John using most of his strength to pull him out of the sea. His fingers went instantly to his neck--there was a pulse albeit faint. He pushed John's saturated hair out of the way framing the doctor's face with his hands and shaking him lightly. "John. You have to wake up!"

John let out a faint moan but didn't open his eyes. Sherlock allowed himself to look down to see the opening on John's leg and grimaced. Fire coral. _Milleporidae._ Poisonous on contact with human skin and other animals, it could create huge abrasions. Prolonged contact would induce intense pain for weeks. They needed to get John to hospital immediately. He would require a blood transfusion. _If he can make it that far,_ said a small voice in the back of Sherlock’s head. He pushed forward refusing to think about it further. It felt different this time, rescuing John out of the water. The ocean was so much less predictable than the Thames. It was a struggle to kick; the current was seemly against them.

As Sherlock saw the beginning of the shoreline he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter getting closer. 

* * *

 

John Watson heard voices, whispers. The air felt thin and his eyes felt like lead weights. He swallowed twice, his throat much too dry. He fell back under the waves. He thought he was still in the sea. 

* * *

 

There were shadows moving on the fringes of his vision. An orange streetlight through curtains, or perhaps it was just his eyelids flickering again. He wasn't sure. He was still thirsty. The blurred black edges closed in once more. 

* * *

 

He dreamed of London. He wished he were back home at Baker Street. Black curls dancing in front of him, pale blue eyes focused on his evenly, furrowing in concern… full of something else. Fear, perhaps.

He was in and out for days, completely unaware.

* * *

 

John came into full consciousness a week and half later in London, having no idea how he had gotten there. A hand was enclosed in his and he woke slowly at first then all at once. Even moving his head was painful. 

"John." The voice was to his right. He turned toward the sound and opened his eyes. 

Sherlock looked absolutely devastated. His face was gaunt; there were deep bluish circles around his eyes and his hair was flat around his face, the curls pulled. It was obvious that he hadn't been eating or taking care of himself in any other way. "John," he said again, his voice cracking. 

"Sherl--" John attempted, but found it too difficult to speak just yet. 

Sherlock stood up and walked over to a table in the corner of the hospital room. He poured a small cup of water and brought it over to John. 

After several sips of the cool water, John found his voice. "What happened?" 

"What was the last thing you remember?" Sherlock sat down and took John's hand again; bringing it to his lips and brushing a light kiss across the knuckles. 

John had to think for a moment, reaching into his memory. "The coral reef," he breathed. "I was swimming around it and I got caught." 

"You were caught in a large nest of fire coral." 

"I felt like I was burning." 

"Hence the name, John," said Sherlock softly. "You lost quite a bit of blood. We had to do an emergency transfusion. Luckily, I'm a blood match." 

"Hang on," John sat up in bed straighter and winced. "Have I been changing?" 

"No." Sherlock hesitated. "John--" 

There was a quick knock on the door and the doctor came into the room with an assistant. Sherlock had to stand out of the way as they checked John's IV and temperature. After removing the thermometer from John's mouth the other doctor smiled. "You're quite lucky, Dr Watson. Gave us all a fright. It's a wonder that your husband found you at all out there in the ocean. We were able to transport you several days later to London one you had stabilised." 

John's brow furrowed. "My husband?" he croaked. 

"Of course. Sherlock saved your life. We were able to do a blood transfusion back in Honduras." 

Sherlock gave John a warning glare that clearly said,  _don't contradict him_. 

John nodded weakly, unable to say anything. Everything seemed like too much and he needed to go back to sleep. Sherlock sat back down next to him leaning in and whispered "it was the only way they'd let me stay with you." John found he didn't mind in the least.

“I can’t believe I don’t remember being transported back here,” said John, closing his eyes.

The doctor paused, hand on the doorknob. “You were in a medically-induced coma, Dr Watson. It’s a good thing you don’t remember it.”

* * *

 

Sherlock and John never realised how many friends they actually had between the two of them. Mike came in to stay hello. Greg followed not much later, with Sally sheepishly standing in the doorway. Molly sent flowers; she was in Manchester visiting with her new boyfriend. Mycroft sent a large bouquet of lilies with no excuse as to why he hadn’t shown up himself. Sherlock didn't mind. 

Mrs Hudson came in the afternoon and spent several hours fluffing John's pillows, reprimanding Sherlock for his appearance and doting on John, moving about the hospital room. She made John drink more water and opened the curtains as though it were 221B. She did this all the while glancing at John in concern and saying things like, "I should have never let you two go," and "I'm going to sell that villa. The place was useless anyway." He reassured her that it was in no way her fault. Fatigue took over and he fell asleep again before Mrs Hudson left.

No one talked about John's transformations, or lack thereof. John didn't want to think about it and he didn't have the time to. The constant coming and going of visitors was a welcome distraction. Evening fell and John woke up again. The doctor's assistant came back in to reassure John that he would be able to go home in a few days. He was still exhausted. His leg was throbbing and bothering him, although he was assured that it would heal properly. 

Sherlock stayed next to him the entire day. John shared his dreadful hospital meal with him, making the stubborn detective eat something. 

"You look as bad as I do, Sherlock. I know you haven't eaten in days." 

Sherlock took a bite of biscuit and drank some of John's tea. "I thought I'd lost you," he said in between bites. He put the biscuit down and looking vacant and staring at John without actually seeing. 

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand "You nearly did. But if it wasn't for you--" 

"We'd have never been in this mess. I feel responsible." 

"Don't be daft, Sherlock. I was the one that went out for a swim in a coral reef, for god's sake. That wasn't you." 

"You wouldn't have gone swimming in a coral reef in the first place if you hadn't had to deal with the transformations—the drug that had been in your bloodstream from Franson. All of this was my fault." 

"Don't... just, don't Sherlock. I don't want to play the what-if game with you. I'm going to be okay now. I'm here and I'm not dying. But what I do want to know is why I'm not changing. It's well into the evening and I'm not... there's nothing..." John struggled, kicking one of his legs slightly as though to make sure it was still there. He winced; his skin still burned. 

"Whatever was in that drug; whatever made you change, I think the loss of blood got it out of your system. I don't think you'll be changing again." 

John didn't say anything. On one hand, the loss of his fin was welcome. He'd be able to lead a normal life, or at least as normal as life could be in his and Sherlock's case. He could resume his participation with cases. It would be like before. He wouldn't have to be worried about always finding water or getting home by a certain time.

But John felt the loss like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He'd never again feel the freedom and rush of adrenaline that came with his changes. John had begun to associate his transformation into a merman as part of his own identity. It had fit. The change had allowed his unexplainable restlessness to become palpable. It affected John in the same way that running after a criminal in the alleyways of London, or being in a war zone did. It quelled the need for stimulation—the need of fear and diversion—into something that his body instinctually took over and just did.

John realised now that he had become too keen on his transformations. In fact, there would never be a substitute for the adrenaline rush that came from just being with Sherlock. Sherlock had been the common denominator the whole time because no matter what, nothing could get his heart racing quite like sherlock could. 

"So that's it then? It was just something in my blood," said John aloud. 

"That's the most logical assumption, yes. I think it's best that we don't tell anyone. At least for now. Those that are close to us, of course they'll always know. But Franson is no longer a threat. Mycroft and Scotland Yard have the whole operation under their control. They know how dangerous whatever Franson created was and it's not something that is readily accessible. In the future, perhaps. But not now." 

John was lost in thought and didn’t respond. Sherlock interrupted him. "John. I need to tell you something." He had shifted closer to the bed. He took a deep breath, opening and closing his mouth. No sound came out.

Sensing Sherlock's hesitation, John squeezed his hand. "You can tell me anything, don't forget that." 

Sherlock gave him a shaky smile. "John. When I found you in the water. It was undoubtedly the worst moment of my life." He lowered his gaze from John's. He begun staring at his shoulder instead. It was suddenly too difficult to look the doctor in the eyes. "I've had a lot to think about for the past week and a half. Not knowing what was going to happen..." Sherlock's voice halted. 

John reached out and drew Sherlock to him. The detective leaned against John's shoulder and John kissed the top of his head. "You don't have to explain, love." 

"But I do." Sherlock's voice was muffled.

John frowned. Was Sherlock crying? "Hey," he said, kissing Sherlock's head again. "No tears, okay? We're pretty lucky, as it were." 

Sherlock took a breath and sat up, a fierce determination taking over his features. "I thought about the fact that you would die. That I'd never been able to tell you exactly how much you meant to me. This is the second time that it's happened and—" 

"I'm not leaving you that easily," John joked, smiling. "I'm resilient, I promise."  

"I love you," Sherlock blurted out.

There was a brief moment of silence when John took a sharp intake of breath in shock at Sherlock's words. But then John started to smile, and his smile grew even bigger until he was grinning like an idiot at his best friend who stared back at him in trepidation. "I love you too." 

The detective visibly relaxed. “I want to start over. Build a life together…”

 John shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t want to start over, Sherlock. I don’t want to forget what happened to us. And I don’t want to build a life together.”

Sherlock spoke quickly. “Of course, it was foolish for me to assume—“

“Sherlock. We’ve already built a life together. I want to continue what we already have. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone before and quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”

Sherlock stood up abruptly. “Can you move over a bit?” he gestured to the bed. “I mean, are you able?”

John grimaced a little, but managed to make room. Sherlock very slowly and carefully turned on his side and lay down next to John. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he whispered, resting his forehead against John’s.

He kissed John sweetly, bringing their lips together. John’s were still dry and he pressed more firmly against Sherlock’s kissing him fiercely back. “I want to go home,” John murmured against Sherlock's lips, pulling away only a fraction. "I want to solve cases together again. I want to wake up every morning next to you, knowing that you'll be there before I even open my eyes." 

Sherlock reached over and held John’s hand in his own, bringing it to his chest. “Soon,” he said right before kissing him again.

* * *

 

Three days later John and Sherlock came back to Baker Street. It was difficult for John to walk at first and in many ways, he felt like he did when he came back from the war and had the limp. Before he met Sherlock. Except now, everything was different. He had his detective by his side and with time he would recover fully.

 

John still dreamt of the sea sometimes. He would wake in the middle of the night and get out of bed. He’d stare out the window at Baker Street below seeing the occasional lonely Londoner walking on the sidewalk under the lamplight. He would sway on his feet, the memory of the taste of salt and seaweed faint, but still there. He no longer craved it.

John would think of the waves, the vast sea, until Sherlock would notice the loss of John's warmth in bed and wake up to walk over to him at the window. He'd wrap his arms around John, kissing the side of his neck, coaxing him back to bed. Sherlock always made sure to stay awake until John fell back asleep. They wouldn’t speak but they would kiss. John would trace his fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw and the detective would stare back at him until John would get lost in the pale blue eyes that reminded him so much of the sea. And then they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought it would take me this long to write the story. I started over a year ago with a simple plan of three chapters and it completely took on a mind of its own. I'm honestly just proud to have completed it. I know that this is far, far from perfect but it's quite satisfying just to have an ending. Thank you to everyone who gave kudos and commented. Special shout out to artless_sprawl for sticking with me from the beginning. When it was hard to find the motivation to start the next chapter, it really helped to know that I had a loyal reader. 
> 
> I have some ideas rolling around for the next one and I want to keep improving as a writer. So you'll see more from me in the future. Until then, 
> 
> -Sleeepyowl


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